The Peasant King
by Virgo827
Summary: Post 3x10, Queen of Hearts. Merlin, Arthur, and Gwen have fled Camelot in the wake of Morgana's fake love enchantment. Arthur has given up his throne to start a new life in a small village. But as he struggles to adjust and reconcile his sense of duty with his own happiness, Merlin has a sinking feeling Morgana's machinations have not yet come to their conclusion...
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

The autumn night was fading to black and speckled with stars, not a cloud in sight. The full moon was hanging low and fat in the eastern sky. An auspicious omen for a wedding, Gerun thought.

He turned back to Yaissa. She nodded at him and glanced back to the moon. "The date was chosen well. The Triple Goddess has her finger on this bride. Lucky girl."

Gerun resisted the urge to raise a skeptical brow. Omens were well and good, but sometimes it was difficult to see all the signs and portents that the healer claimed to. After all, the girl had only thrown some bones in the stone circle. Yaissa had taken one look and proclaimed the wedding would be held in two weeks' time. She'd known the moon would be full this night.

He opened his mouth to speak, but shook his head and shut it again. There was a reason Gerun was a chieftain, and not a sage.

Yaissa seemed to know his thoughts. As usual. She tutted at him. "How many winters have I been a healer in your clan, Gerun? I pulled you into this world, boy. On a night as dark as this is bright." She rested her wrinkled, knobbly hand against his cheek. "I told your mother to birth a boy on a new moon meant he had a long path ahead of him, fighting through the darkness."

 _Darkness. If only Mother had known how true the healer's words would be._

"Now I know even more. Boys born to the new moon are stubborn as mules as well."

Gerun couldn't help himself. A gruff laugh escaped. But he still felt the heavy shadow of Yaissa's predictions. The whole damn realm was in darkness. His people were hunted, his gift was punishable by death, and Uther still kept his iron grip on his forefather's land.

"Despite what you think, Yaissa, I am a druid. I do trust in our people's traditions. In you. I just… struggle to see beyond the mire we find ourselves in now." The chieftain turned to the healer suddenly, struck by a passing thought.

"When I was a boy, after Mother… you would tell me stories before I slept to help me pass the night. I don't remember all of them, but there was one…"

Gerun didn't quite know what he was asking. For hope, perhaps? A light in the endless dark?

Yaissa's grey eyes were lit with an ethereal glow in the moonlight. She studied him intently and Gerun tried not to squirm.

 _Get a hold of yourself. You're a man now, wedded and chief of your tribe. For spirit's sake, you have children of your own that you use this look on!_

Gerun shifted on his feet and Yaissa smiled. "Even after all these years, you surprise me," she whispered. When she continued, her tone was clearer and stronger, with all the cadence of a story well told.

"You speak of Emrys."

The name echoed in his head and through the years. He'd heard the name as a babe in his mother's lap, and as an orphan at Yaissa's knee. He'd heard it cursed by bitter old women and praised by prideful young men.

"In ages past, the High Priests and Priestesses looked to the sky and saw the web of fate laid out in the stars. The constellations cycled above, predicting the turn of the seasons, and the wanderers drifted between, shaping events in their path. And the greatest seer of that ancient time felt a shift in the magic and secluded herself deep in the wild woods, atop a lone hill from which she studied the sky every night for a year. And when she returned to her tribe, she told them what was to come."

Yaissa traced the outline of the great white circle suspended over the horizon with a bony finger. Her voice dropped a notch, lower and somehow more hypnotic. "When darkness floods the land, when tyranny rules the people, when the old magic gasps its dying breaths, he will come. Emrys- the greatest sorcerer who has ever lived and will ever live. He will bring magic back to the land with the Once and Future King, Gerun, and sweep our enemies away."

Gerun shivered and tried to rub the inexplicable goosebumps on his arms away. "Do you- do you really believe he will come in our lifetime? The prophecy seems to recall this time… but every fool believes a prophecy will happen for him to see."

The healer's smile was mischievous. "I do indeed, my boy. There are not many seers left to our people. But I have heard whispers from the Goddess. He lives, Gerun. Now."

"Wh- you mean he's already here? Then where the bloody hell is he? Uther's going to hunt us to extinction at this rate unless he steps in!"

"I am not omniscient, Gerun. And there is more to the prophecy than you know." The smile had dropped to be replaced by annoyance. "You are practical to a fault sometimes. I have just told you that the most powerful sorcerer in existence lives and all you can utter is foul language?"

Rubbing a hand down his face, Gerun sighed. "No, no. You're right. He must have his reasons. I guess. Not my place and all."

"Perhaps he was born on a new moon as well. Too stubborn to see what's right in front of him." Yaissa's voice was teasing.

He wanted to continue, demanding everything Yaissa knew about Emrys, but she had turned away as several of the women approached. He followed her aimlessly over to the nervous groom, his mind still whirring over the possibilities. Was Emrys his real name? Or did he simply go by it, like an odd sobriquet of sorts? How on earth could a seer from a thousand years ago predict what some lass was going to name her child now?

Was Yaissa just pulling the wool over his eyes?

Stung at the thought, and shamed over even thinking it, Gerun pulled his attention back to the young man in front of him.

"Your bride awaits you beneath the rowan tree," Yaissa told him.

The groom was a strapping young lad, with a crown of golden hair and broad shoulders. His arms were thicker and muscled, as if he had worked a field or a smithy most of his life, but he lacked callouses in the proper places and his skin was smooth and unscarred. No burns from the forge. Uncommonly handsome and well-spoken for a peasant.

All of which had caused Gerun to previously conclude he was highborn. A third or fourth son, run off with a girl his father wouldn't approve of. Or some lord's by-blow, a bastard raised like a highborn but never having a place in the court or society.

He'd named himself as Arthur, but Gerun wasn't sure if it was the name his mother gave him. The lad might've borrowed it from the Prince, fancying himself of a physical likeness. The smallfolk talked, though, and Gerun knew the Prince was a sight bigger and taller than the average man, rugged and powerful. Or so Yaissa's mousy grandniece had said as she swooned and dreamed of Camelot.

Gerun didn't much care where a man came from. He put more stock on how they treated others. The lad had been tender and charmingly bashful with his bride-to-be. But with the others in the camp, he had at first been wary, standoffish, and almost downright disapproving. Eventually he came around, especially to Yaissa, which was no surprise after she healed his girl.

He couldn't quite read the young man's attitude toward their companion, the black-haired one. Marlin? No… Merlin.

They joked like friends, fought like brothers, and bickered like Yaissa and her husband. At first, Gerun had shrugged it off. But as the weeks passed, Gerun finally put his finger on what niggled his curiosity about the boys and convinced him beyond any doubt they were of differing status.

Gerun got the impression Merlin lived to contradict- orders and expectations. Merlin was a slightly awkward lad who nonetheless was likable, friendly and open. Spirits, the boy could talk. And complain. Arthur seemed to put up with the chatter for the most part, with affected ill humor. But there always came a point, underneath the contrary attitude, that Merlin ceded to Arthur's wishes. Like an apprentice or a servant. And Arthur had the unique ability to make any statement sound like an order. Gerun would bet a month's supply of Yaissa's stash of sweetwine that he'd been giving them since birth.

With Yaissa's words, however, the lad looked less sure of himself than Gerun had ever seen. Gone was the easy grace and confidence. All that was left was a young man facing his imminent wedding. He chuckled to himself. Before he'd joined Serra at the foot of his own rowan tree, he'd nearly gotten sick all over his own feet.

Arthur turned to his companion. "Merlin, I… maybe you should go talk to Guinevere. She might need more time. In fact, I'm sure of it. Go see if she needs help. She's not familiar with these traditions and she might not even want to—"

He cut himself off and went paler in the silvery light. "Oh gods, Merlin, what if she doesn't want to get married like this? Her brother's not here, and Mor- ahem, my sister, and—"

Merlin clapped both his hands on Arthur's shoulders. "Arthur." The boy's voice was steady and calm. He'd clearly had practice talking his friend out of a few emotional quandaries.

"Guinevere loves you. She doesn't care where you're married, only that you are. You are blessed to have such a woman care for you." The cheeky boy lightly slapped the other's face. "So what in the five kingdoms are you waiting for, you big dollophead?"

Arthur knocked his arm away with a shaky laugh. "You'd better mark this moment down in Gaius' history books, Merlin. For once in your life, you're right."

The young men clasped forearms, like warriors before a battle, before heading off in the direction of the rowan tree. Yaissa and Gerun came after. The healer was the closest thing their camp had to a sage anymore to give the blessing. Gerun damned the king only once, in his thoughts, before focusing on the blessed event. A joining meant there was still a future to hope for.

The bride was resplendent in her maiden's cloak. Though the fabric was old and gently worn, the quality was incomparable. The pale blue garment had been sewn in a time when the druids did not hide in the forest but lived in it, and traded with the towns and cities within Camelot before Uther's brutal unification. Woven with seed pearls in a delicate lattice, the hood of the cloak partially covered the bride's face until her groom pulled it back and settled it on her shoulders.

Guinevere was smiling tremulously, her dark eyes shining as she looked up to her husband-to-be. The two did not turn their gazes from each other as Yaissa began to intone the blessing. She threaded a braided red cord around their hands, Arthur's strong, pale hand clasping Guinevere's smaller and darker one.

"May the sun shine on your dwelling, and the moon guide your passage through the forest. May your sons grow strong, and your daughters wise. May you travel the path together, and may your spirits meet again in the Land Beyond the Water."

Yaissa's voice rang through the clearing. Nearly the whole camp was assembled to witness the joining. Gerun watched several older women clutch at the crystals hanging from the ribbons round their necks, gifts from their husbands after years of faithful marriage. Moira, the elderly widow, breathed the last part of the blessing along with the healer.

A young apprentice handed Yaissa a bundle of herbs, smoking fitfully at one end. He couldn't quite identify the odor, but it called back memories of Yaissa's healing tent and the lost boy he had been.

The healer wove the herbs and smoke through the air in an inscrutable pattern. Finally, she turned and bowed to the rowan tree, and waved for the wedded pair to do the same.

"Let it be known that this man and woman, Arthur and Guinevere, have been joined before the Tree. Chief Gerun's clan and tribe bear witness, as does the Triple Goddess." A smile broke forth from the healer's withered lips, crinkling her eyes and cheeks. "Go forth and celebrate this blessed union."

A rousing cheer went up from the gathered tribe. Esun, Pimell, and the other young men were particularly rowdy with their calls and whistles before carving a path through the crowd straight for the sweetwine Yaissa had provided and the queer clear liquor Bena had traded with a band of smugglers for.

The newly wedded couple trailed after the revelers, laughing and grinning at each other. Yaissa watched them go with a fond half-smile and wistful eye.

"Will you be accompanying me to the celebration?" Gerun asked.

"For a short while. Until this knee of mine complains enough to send me to my tent." To Gerun's surprise, she caught Merlin by the shoulder before he could leave.

"Is there something you need my help with, Yaissa?" the boy said, his head tilted in question.

"No, you sweet boy. I simply would like to give you a piece of advice, if you would have it."

Gerun went to step away for some semblance of privacy, but Yaissa held him fast by the arm. He gave her a puzzled look but she didn't release her grip.

"Of course." His blue eyes were earnest and curious.

"I have known you would not stay with us for long since your group arrived. You will leave the camp soon." Yaissa stepped closer, forcing the boy's much taller frame to crane his neck down.

"You and your companions are running. From the past and from duty and from pain. But know this, young sorcerer. For the sake of the future, you must return."

 _Wait… sorcerer?_ Gerun's mind was spinning. Merlin appeared similarly shocked and bewildered, as if he'd just been hit over the head with a particularly heavy tree branch. Then his blue eyes flashed with some dark emotion.

"You don't understand. We can't go back! She'll kill us- well, he'll kill us… now that I think of it, too many people would like to kill us! I have to protect Arthur and Gwen." Merlin's voice was edged with desperation, and anger made him perhaps a touch louder than he should have been.

Yaissa waved off his excuses like so many buzzing flies. "Listen to me before you speak. Patience is a virtue you young people would do well to cultivate," she muttered before continuing. "I am not telling you to return tomorrow or even in a fortnight. But the day will dawn sooner than you expect. Events are in motion, even now. The joining of your companions is only the most recent in the cascade of fate. The future of these lands, and of magic itself, rests on their shoulders and on yours. Especially yours."

The significant glances exchanged between the two left Gerun more confused than before, if that was possible. Merlin seemed to know her intent. He nodded once at her, solemn and slow.

"Go now, and join your friends. And remember- you always have an ally in the druids. You would be welcome in this clan and any other. But first you must acknowledge who you are."

Yaissa allowed the boy the leave. Gerun studied his retreating back for a long moment. Old words and old stories flitted through his mind. He could smell the smoke of the healer's herbs, lingering in the air. "Magic itself, Yaissa?"

Yaissa nodded at him. There was so much meaning in that single motion that Gerun fought to breathe. _He's just a boy._ The chieftain sighed. _And of an age with you when you first claimed this tribe and these people as your own._

"Well. Perhaps a new age is dawning after all."


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur watched the early morning sunlight begin to filter through the window. How many times had he slept through the dawn in Camelot? Waking to the stunning sight of the sun crowning the eastern horizon was a recently discovered pleasure. A benefit of the peasantry. As far as he was concerned, it was the only benefit of his new life.

Other than his wife. Of course. The dark-haired beauty, curled into his side, shifted in her sleep. Arthur smiled and closed his eyes, content to drink in the warmth and familiarity of morning in the home they made together.

The small, simple shack was a far cry from the magnificent stonewalls and battlements of Camelot. No sumptuous bedcovers, only thin wool ones, covered their skin. Feather pillows had been stuffed with straw instead. There were no servants to wait on the Prince hand and foot, to mend his clothes and prepare his meals and bow their heads as he passed.

Yet it seemed the Prince hadn't managed to escape from his annoyingly persistent manservant.

"Rise and shine!"

The cheerful voice rang dissonantly through the peaceful air. Even though Merlin had long since stopped being a servant, there were a few habits that had been difficult to break. Irritating the Prince being one of them.

With his eyes still closed, he muttered, "One of these days, Merlin, I'll have you executed." Just because Arthur enjoyed the beauty of the dawn didn't mean he had to get out of bed to do it.

Merlin laughed nervously. "Only the Prince can have me executed. And we're far away from Camelot, Arthur."

Of course. Just as Merlin was no longer a servant, Arthur was no longer a prince.

He opened his eyes and met Gwen's gaze. She had an amused smile on her face. Arthur felt a returning smile curve his lips. She was the reason he'd given up his claim to sovereignty. And he'd never regretted it, not for a moment. Not when he woke up every morning in her arms.

"He's right, Arthur. We should get up. There is much to do at the forge today." Gwen reminded him gently.

Ever since they had settled in this village, Guinevere had been instructing him in the methods and techniques of blacksmithing. They'd bought the small forge from an old man looking to retire his trade with the money Arthur had brought from Camelot. _Not_ stolen, no matter what Merlin said. It was his money, after all. His father… Uther had provided him with an allotment of sorts for many years. And unlike his manservant, he hadn't spent all his extra coin in the tavern.

Learning the art of blacksmithing was a slow and frustrating process, but she had endless patience with him, even though he'd turned out to be a very trying pupil. His skill had progressed considerably in spite of all. She was moving on to bladesmithing next, something of a specialty of her late father's.

The thought of once again gripping the hilt of a sword in his now calloused hands spurred Arthur out of bed with an uncharacteristic grin. He caught sight of Merlin's baffled face and Gwen's surprised one.

"What? I thought you wanted me to get up!"

"I did. I just didn't expect you to be so chipper about it." Merlin looked suddenly wary. "Is this is a trick?"

Arthur laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Oh, Merlin."

Leaving that ominous statement hanging, Arthur went in to the other room. The rough-hewn wooden table rested in the middle of the small area, the cooking stove to the left, and Merlin's cot to the right.

"That wasn't an answer!" Merlin called after him.

"I know."

Merlin grumbled but followed him, preparing a fire in the hearth while Arthur stepped outside to fetch more wood from the stockpile around the back of their modest home. They completed the morning chores in an easy harmony, with the air of a routine well practiced. Gwen boiled eggs to break their fast and warmed some mulled wine over the crackling fire. Merlin puttered around making beds and setting out Arthur's clothing.

Arthur ducked back into the front room, rubbing his hands at the brisk air, as Merlin gently laid his trousers on the quilt. He raised an eyebrow. "You know, Merlin, I don't understand why you still insist on doing that. You always make a point to remind me that I've joined the ranks of the peasantry."

With a grin, Merlin looked up and replied, "Habit, I guess. Nothing wrong with keeping a sense of normality."

"That's not normal any longer. If anyone saw you doing that they'd think… well, they'd probably think that I have delusions of grandeur or something. Being a simple blacksmith and all." Arthur snorted.

"You do have delusions of grandeur."

"That's preposterous. They aren't delusions."

"Well if you insist on acting like a royal prat, I insist on treating you like a royal prat. With or without the title." Merlin laughed and skipped out of the room before Arthur could smack him. He sighed and sat down, hoping Guinevere could salvage his annoyed mood. But she just gave him a _look_ , like his father used to give he and Morgana when he'd caught them fighting at supper under the table.

"He—"

"Don't start, Arthur. You both act like children." Her words were stern but he saw a smile slip onto her face as she turned away to fetch the wine from the fire.

Merlin only returned in time to snatch a boiled egg on the way to the forge. The ex-prince and his measly retinue wound through the dirt streets of the small village. As they passed through the large open area that served as the town square, Arthur squinted at the lack of vendors and stalls. "Where is everyone?" he asked.

"Market day in Flintbridge, I believe. You remember. That town we stopped in and met the blacksmith Marcus," Gwen answered. At Arthur's confused expression, she rolled her eyes. "You must remember Marcus. He's the one who told us that Old Ironhands was looking for a young man to take over his forge."

Merlin shuddered. "Old Ironhands. He did _not_ like me."

"You're lucky I was here. He'd have never turned his forge over to the likes of you." Arthur chuckled, remembering the grizzly, wrinkled man that Marcus had warned them of, with hands that could've wrapped all the way around Merlin's neck.

"I only asked him how old he was."

Gwen laughed. "Merlin, you have a gift. You can make any question sound impertinent."

"Both of you sound like Gaius," Merlin complained. Then he quieted and Arthur knew why as he glanced over. A lonely, faraway look always came into Merlin's eye when he thought of the court physician.

Guinevere nudged him and motioned to Merlin's back. Arthur tried to silently convey that he was already going to comfort him without her nagging, and would she just give him a minute, but decided he had not succeeded when Gwen's lips pressed together in a firm line.

Arthur cleared his throat and caught up. "Once I forge a sword, Merlin, you're going to have no excuses."

"What?"

"Well, I'm going to need to make sure it's balanced correctly. That it'll hold up in a fight." Merlin still seemed perplexed and Arthur couldn't help but laugh. He slung an arm around his shoulder.

"I'll need someone to train with. And you're just the man for the job."

The comforting sound of Merlin whining carried the trio all the way to the forge. The sturdy building, all thick logs and square sides, sat just off the eastern road leading into the town of Colembria. More of a village, in Arthur's opinion, coming from the great city of Camelot as he did. But the people of Colembria liked to refer to the settlement of less than a thousand people as a town.

Village or town, Colembria had given them a new beginning. And Arthur intended to make the most of it.

He greeted Alric with a nod as he ducked through the low entrance. The lad had arrived early and started up the fires. Alric was short and stocky, with a thick head of muddy brown hair. He and Merlin were as different in appearance as they were in temperament. Alric was steady, quiet, and calm. What he lacked in talent, he made up for in diligence. Arthur had taken to giving Alric pointers and talking him through the movements as he shaped the metal. He found that it improved his own technique, and Alric soaked up the lessons with characteristic wide-eyed silence.

Merlin said Arthur liked Alric so much because he could listen to the sound of his own voice all day. The idiot had no appreciation for the patience and skill required for the art of blacksmithing. That was why he was restricted to operating the bellows. Arthur didn't trust him with sharp objects or molten metal.

He was so engrossed in mentally reviewing Guinevere's lessons regarding how many times the iron ore should be heated that he didn't hear Jacob cross the threshold of the forge.

"Good day, Art!"

Arthur cursed as he nearly dropped the cask of redhot iron on his own foot. "By the king's withered old—"

"What Arthur means to say is hello, Jacob." Merlin grinned easily.

"Actually, I meant to say don't call me Art," he growled, setting the cask back onto the anvil to let it cool again. Alric snorted softly.

Jacob was not fazed by his grumpy manner. The boy waved him away with a careless gesture of his hand and turned to Merlin. "Good day to you too, Merlin!"

"Why do you use his full name?" Arthur muttered. Jacob usually dropped by every few days to bring them some of his sister's mince pies, ever since Arthur had forged several shoes for their team of mules free of charge. It had been a rough winter after Jacob's father had passed, and with the planting imminent they'd needed the mules for tilling. And Arthur had figured that he needed to convince the townsfolk of his skill before he could get any sort of steady trade.

He appreciated the pies in any case. Merlin's cooking skills left much to be desired. Gwen was too occupied, between instructing him in the forge and tending to the sewing and embroidering, to bring he and Merlin dinner as well. Apparently, the seamstress skills she'd picked up as a princess' handmaiden were quite valuable to the well-to-do ladies in such a backwater area of Essetir. There weren't many in the village, but they seemed to fancy themselves courtesans of the wheatfields and barley rows. She was receiving orders from as far off as Flintbridge lately.

True to form, Jacob tossed a carefully wrapped basket of hot pies onto the sturdy workbench, knocking a hammer to the dirt floor. At Arthur's pointed glare, Merlin picked it up with a sheepish smile.

Jacob chattered mindlessly at a solemn Alric while Arthur strolled over to the bench. He selected two of the largest pastries from the bunch while elbowing Merlin out of the way.

"Clara says she's taking me with her to Flintbridge for the next market day, can you believe that? I suppose with the harvest being in and all and Brynn so busy with picking stupid flowers for Thenna that she needs all the help she can get, and so I told her—"

Thankfully, Merlin cut him off. Arthur heaved a sigh of relief and bit into the savory pie.

"I thought Clara wanted to make the trip up north to Hawthorne. She mentioned that their market draws a higher price for barley," Merlin commented.

"Oh, no. Not anymore. Clara doesn't want to risk it."

"Risk what?" Arthur asked. The last thing he wanted to do was encourage the boy to jabber on, but his words had caught Arthur's attention.

"Our aunt lives up in Hawthorne. She said Cenred's soldiers have been coming through and rounding up men. Clara doesn't want me to be anywhere near." Jacob gave an exasperated sigh at his sister's evident overprotectiveness. "As if they'd want anything to do with me. I've never even swung a sword."

Arthur's heart skipped a beat. Cenred was conscripting men? What for? To march on Camelot?

"Cenred is massing his forces?" he demanded. Jacob blinked wide hazel eyes at him. "Do you have any notion of the numbers—"

"Well, it sounds like Clara might have a point." Merlin said loudly over Arthur. "You'll have to let me know if Flintbridge has any good apothecaries. I've been looking for some yarrow and rue. Hard to come by on this side of the Northern Tail."

Jacob nodded eagerly. Merlin refused to meet Arthur's angry gaze. He held his tongue until the lanky lad sauntered out to return home. Alric moved off to shape some simple horsehoes. Arthur grabbed Merlin by the upper arm and dragged him off to the side of the bellows.

"He could have had valuable information about Cenred's forces!"

Merlin's blue eyes were narrowed. "I seriously doubt it. Jacob's aunt probably didn't scout the enemy line, Arthur. The boy's liable to exaggerate anyway."

Arthur conceded the point with a grunt. "But still- if Cenred is massing his soldiers, we need some reliable information."

Merlin frowned. "Do we?"

"What? Of course we do! They could be planning to march on Camelot!"

His former manservant sighed. "Look, Arthur. I know you're worried about Camelot, and your father, and- and Morgana. But this isn't your responsibility anymore. You gave that up with your title."

"You can't tell me that you're not curious about what Cenred's planning. And of course I'm worried. This is my kingdom, Merlin!" Arthur insisted.

"Your father's kingdom. And he has plenty of advisors, and soldiers, and scouts to keep watch on his borders. He did this for years before you were born."

Arthur didn't want Merlin's careful reasoning. He wasn't used to watching the battle from afar. As a prince of Camelot, he was in the thick of things. Matters of strategy, warfare, and foreign politics were all discussed over bread and butter. He wanted to know what has happening.

Merlin's expression softened a bit as he studied Arthur. "A peasant would not be concerned with the location and numbers of Cenred's army- beyond hoping that soldiers would not tread anywhere near their village. Keep that in mind."

Arthur nodded wordlessly. He broke the tip off the sword he had attempted to forge that day. On the short walk home, he nearly fell flat on his arse tripping over a rut on the road. Guinevere kept exchanging worried glances with Merlin throughout dinner.

He knew that Camelot was no longer his concern. But Jacob's thoughtless words kept tumbling through his head.

When he fell asleep that night, Arthur dreamt of his father, sitting alone on his throne in a pit of snakes.


	3. Chapter 3

"Blond, you say? Built all strong-like?" The barkeep gave an annoyed huff. "Ain't seen no lad like that round here. My daughter would'a noticed too. Damned girl won't stop battin' her eyes at any bloke come by these parts with a sword. Thinks some knight'll come strolling through town one day and whisk her away on the back of his horse."

The disheveled man scrubbed at his nose with the palm of his hand, coughed up phlegm in his throat, and spit onto the tavern floor. Leon tried not to grimace.

"Mind you, I'm not holdin' my breath. Poor girl takes after her mother."

If his side of the family were the comely ones, Leon never wanted to meet the girl's mother. It was past time to move on from this backwater village on the edges of the Northern Plains. But he'd lingered anyway, drawing out the patrol and irritating his men. He'd been so sure the Prince would head this direction, fleeing toward Mercia or farther north to Gawant.

The knight tried not to let the disappointment show on his face. "I appreciate your time and effort." He tossed a copper toward the barkeep, who snatched it from the air with unexpected agility. "Many thanks."

The grizzled man nodded genially. "Hope you find the lad. His father's like to give 'im a good beatin' when he finally shows his face again."

For a moment, the image of Uther Pendragon bending a grown Arthur in ringmail over his knee made Leon choke with restrained laughter and horror. He coughed and gave a noncommittal noise as he hurried through the tavern.

Edric was waiting for him outside. "That didn't take long," the shorter knight observed. He eyed Leon. "No good news, then."

The knight in command shook his head dejectedly. "Hadn't seen any man matching the description. It'd be easier if I knew for sure what name the prince was going by… but who knows? And I don't want to go around asking after a missing Arthur when the whole of Camelot knows the prince is gone."

 _Why couldn't you have told me where you planned to go, Arthur?_ The thought that the prince did not trust in Leon's loyalty was a constant, stinging pain in his chest. _I wouldn't have betrayed your secret._

"Merlin could have given him a new identity. Mayhaps he has just discovered the existence of his little brother, Marlon."

Edric cackled at his own joke and Leon's heavy mood could not smother a smile at Arthur's expense. "I can't imagine the Prince agreeing to that."

"The fact that Merlin can get him to agree to half of his ridiculous schemes continues to astound me. It could happen. Prince Marlon of Camelot. Rather nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"If you fancy keeping your head attached to your neck, don't ever say that in front of Prince Arthur."

Edric's mouth formed a thin, hard line. "Assuming we ever find him. Leon, we can't keep the men here any longer. They wish to return to Camelot and their families, and our patrol is past due for reporting to the king."

"I know, Edric. I do. I just… need to find Arthur. He has to return to Camelot." Morgana's pale countenance seemed to smirk at him in his mind's eye.

The scene Leon had interrupted at supper several weeks past still unnerved him. The Lady Morgana had been speaking to the king in a low, smooth voice. He hadn't caught all of her words. But as he approached the king to inform him of a last minute change in his patrol's imminent departure, he'd heard enough to worry.

"…saddens me to see you so distraught over Arthur's abandonment, my lord. And it shames me to know that my own handmaiden was complicit in his betrayal. To have Arthur so corrupted by magic—"

She cut herself off as Leon drew close, pale green eyes slightly narrowed. The lady's attraction had always struck Leon as a distant sort of pull. Ethereal and cold, like the jagged beauty of a winter landscape. In that heartbeat, he'd sensed absolutely no warmth in her. He'd wondered how the king could look into her face and simply give her a vague, sad smile. Leon himself had to fight not to recoil at the uncharacteristic frost in her expression.

The Lady's intentions were not clear. But Leon could not shake his unease. With the departure of Arthur, the king alternated between unfocused melancholy and snappish, heated anger. His ward, however, seemed to carry herself with the old confidence that had been lacking since the nightmares had begun to plague her more frequently. She was apparently not fazed by the suddenness of Arthur and her handmaiden's departure. The knight did not know what to make of her unsettling composure.

His companion glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "I know you must feel responsible for him. He's trained under you for years, Leon. But the prince must make his own way in the world."

A surge of annoyance overwhelmed him. Edric had only come to the city a few years ago, from the western reaches of Camelot, nearer to Caerleon than the citadel. He knew the prince as a headstrong young man. But Leon had watched Arthur as a blond boy in the training yard, swinging his wooden sword around with a precocious ferocity. The young prince had no patience with his instructors. The seasoned warriors were too busy carrying out the remnants of the Purge to bother training a willful boy. The king was encased in his grief. The distance he put between himself and his son was a tangible presence, a thick stonewall of resentment and despair.

Leon had been a fledgling, promising soldier, fresh and bright-eyed. The prospect of contributing to the little prince's training had come as an honor. The boy had a certain raw talent that the newly christened knight had come to admire, given his own incompetence with the sword at the prince's age. His own skill had come through diligence and practice after weary practice.

Edric had not witnessed Arthur's growth as a swordsman and a sovereign. Leon saw how the prince came to grasp the weight of his duty and bend before it. The burden would have been too great for a lesser man.

Not to say that Arthur didn't have his faults. Was it any wonder the solitary son, golden and bright and precious to his father and his kingdom, had a streak of superiority a mile long? To name oneself monarch required a peculiar amount of arrogance in any case. Uther conquered a kingdom at Arthur's age, and his son had inherited his pride if nothing else.

But underneath the veneer of royalty, Arthur felt a responsibility to his people and his land that rivaled and surpassed any noble Leon knew. It frustrated him endlessly to see even his fellow knights underestimating the prince.

"Arthur will find his _way_ is in Camelot. And if the prince requires a reminder, I will gladly pass it on. But I have faith he will recognize his duty."

Edric squinted at him. "Humph. Sooner or later. I pray sooner."

Guinevere smiled brightly from his memories. Leon felt a twinge of guilt in his chest. He hated to even think it, but if Arthur were to return to his duties now, in all likelihood, he and Gwen would have to relinquish their relationship.

Her mother had served in Leon's household. As a child, Gwen had been just as sweet and pretty as the young woman she had grown into. He'd been astonished when word reached him that Prince Arthur had eloped with the serving girl. Not that Arthur had fallen for her- no, that had been patently obvious with the way Arthur stared when she entered the room or passed in the hall. Leon had even found the dumbstruck haze that came into the prince's blue eyes at the sight of the girl amusing at first.

But it seemed out of Gwen's character to allow the prince to abandon his kingdom and his duty for her sake. Perhaps it was that Leon simply did not know enough of the heart to understand the passions that drove young lovers. But the question wore at him constantly, night and day: _Why did you leave, Arthur?_

In the confusion and chaos that reigned in the wake of the crown prince's disappearance, Leon had made himself a vow. He would find his prince, and ask him the question himself. Had the prince been forced to leave by some threat? Had he been enchanted? Kidnapped? Or had he simply fled to protect Guinevere? Whatever answers Arthur gave, Leon would finally know, and he could put his mind to rest.

But the prince was not to be found in the northern reaches of Camelot, it seemed. It was time to return to the citadel. Until he could manage to lobby his way onto the next lengthy patrol. South? Towards the Forest of Balor? Arthur could have crossed the Dragon's Tail into Cenred's kingdom.

The prospect of a new destination renewed Leon's flagging energy. He nodded at Edric. "We'll leave at daybreak. Let's gather the men and resupply here. Send Henrik and Wendell to the market for fresh provisions. And tell Henrik if he spends a single coin on sweetwine, he'll be walking his horse all the way back to Camelot."

The first of the tavern's nightly customers passed them on the wide, dusty road through the town's center. The sun was just crossing the black line of the distant horizon. Leon gazed to the south, imagining the white spires and towers of Camelot could be seen rising from amidst the darkened patches of trees.

 _Wherever you are, Arthur, stay safe. I will find you._


	4. Chapter 4

The coarse leather grip wrapped around the hilt felt warm and familiar against his palm. Arthur swung the rough practice sword a few times under the pretense of testing the balance.

This weapon paled in comparison to even his old training sword back in Camelot. The blade was more iron than steel, a dull gray instead of gleaming silver. The hilt was barely fashioned, instead, hastily wrapped in leather. And gods knew there were no inlaid rubies.

But Arthur couldn't keep the irreverent grin off his face. Truly, he was glad to simply have hold of a weapon again. He itched to train- to sweat, to strain his muscles, to collapse onto the ground exhausted and strangely sated. When he tried to explain to Gwen and Merlin, they'd simply shoot him bemused and tolerant looks.

The apprentice blacksmith sighed and set the sword back down. Some people just didn't have the warrior instinct. That was one quality he and Morgana had always seemed to share. Arthur never needed to explain to her the irrepressible urge to fight.

He was still trying to imagine how Morgana was passing the days in the castle with both her handmaid and Arthur gone when Gwen ducked through the forge's low entryway.

"Hello, my love," she said warmly. Despite himself, Arthur felt a blush rise on his neck. "How is my swordsmith faring?"

"He fares quite well, my lady." He stepped forward to greet her, slipping an arm around her waist. "Better now that he can look upon such a lovely countenance as yours."

"You think you're such a poet, don't you?" Her laugh was light and her lips sweet.

With his usual sense of impeccable timing, Merlin stumbled into the forge as well. Arthur heard his overly abused groan.

"We need to work out some sort of signal. A scarf tied round the handle? Or maybe you should just block the entire door with the anvil. I have enough trouble sharing the same cottage with the two of you—"

"For the love of Camelot, Merlin, why are you here? I thought you were going round to the lad's sister." Arthur reluctantly released his giggling wife.

"I already have. She and Jacob have headed off to Flintbridge for the market, but I though I'd bring some pies for dinner because I knew Gwen was stopping by." Merlin dropped the carefully wrapped package unceremoniously on the grimy worktop. "And her name's Clara, Arthur. You've only known her for what, three moons?"

He ignored Merlin and handed a pie to Guinevere. When he turned back, he could have sworn he saw Merlin rolling his eyes.

"And Gael's looking for you. Something about putting an edge on his sword. Anyway, I've got to get back. I'm delivering the rest of Gwen's sewing," Merlin said.

"Thank you, Merlin," Gwen replied. "You're a blessing. I was up half the night finishing Emmeline's bridal gown. My hands are aching."

His manservant smiled goofily at her. "I've been called many things, Gwen, but that might be the first time I've been referred to as a blessing."

"Don't get used to it."

Merlin threw his neckscarf at Arthur. He caught the tatty red piece of fabric on instinct. "If I see that on the door tonight, I'll be sure to sleep in the forge," the cheeky man called back as he skidded round the doorjamb.

Arthur half-heartedly threw the scarf at his retreating back.

He and Gwen passed a pleasant dinner, talking and laughing freely together as they never could have in Camelot. She declared his first piece of swordsmithing to be serviceable, though he noticed the wistful look in her brown eyes when she compared it to her father's finely crafted blades.

Gael poked his head in an hour later. The boy was younger than Jacob, with a distinctively mischievous cast to his features, a sharp chin and upturned nose. For a reason Arthur could only too easily fathom, remembering his own days stalking the armory and smithy in the lower levels of the castle, the younger village boys tended to loiter outside of his forge. If they were feeling particularly bold, they would even drop in and pester Arthur with questions about swords and hammers and daggers. Gael was no exception.

This instance, however, he carried a training sword. The tip carved a furrow in the dirt as he dragged it in behind him.

"Hiya, Arthur!"

Arthur frowned down at the short lad. "Gael," he greeted him. Reaching out, Arthur hefted the sword away from the ground and adjusted Gael's grip. "If you're going to wield such a weapon, even just for training, you must treat it with respect." He usually reserved such a tone for his knights when they disappointed him during a spar, but he felt justified given the caliber of the sword. Where had the boy gotten hold of such a superiorly crafted weapon? Simply for training?

"But it's so heavy."

"All the more reason you must ensure your grip is correct. You will strengthen your wrist this way. Eventually, you might even be able to hold the blade upright."

The boy scoffed. "I can hold it. And what do you know, anyway? You're just a blacksmith. I'm here to get an edge for my blade."

A flare of indignation was immediate and involuntary. He suppressed it with effort. "Absolutely not. The point of a practice sword is the blunt edge. I can't in good conscience let you run wild with deadly sharp steel." The words came tumbling out. "And I'll have know I can hold a sword, boy. Better than you, I wager."

"Oh, yeah? Is it a wager you want, then?" Gael asked with a brazen smirk.

" _Really_?"

Gael's eyes twinkled with amusement. Arthur saw the challenge within them and he couldn't resist a grin as he grabbed the hilt of his newly forged sword. It was clumsily made, but he wouldn't let that stop him from showing the peasant boy a thing or two about the art of war.

"You would challenge a simple blacksmith?" Arthur asked with a practiced air of nonchalance.

"I've got to work on my technique somehow. Might as well beat someone who at least knows how to hold a sword," Gael said with a grin that reminded Arthur of his insolent manservant.

Arthur pretended to test the weight of his sword. "Alright, a wager then. If you beat me, I'll forge you a sword worthy of a king." Arthur paused. "Don't you want to know what I get if I win?"

Gael laughed. "You won't," he said simply, swinging his blunted training sword at Arthur's chest.

Arthur ducked and dived backwards, pulling his own weapon with him. He glanced around his crowded forge. Guinevere would kill him if he staged a swordfight in here. "Let's take this outside," he called to Gael as he darted away.

"Are you stalling?" Gael yelled back as he gave chase.

Arthur didn't pause until he was standing near the well in the center of the village. A few villagers paused to watch in amusement as Gael caught up. With a savage grin, Arthur replied, "Not at all!" He lunged forward and nearly knocked Gael's sword from his grip. The boy recovered quickly, and Arthur found that whomever had gifted him the fine training sword with had taught him to utilize his agility well. They traded blows in a mad flurry of limbs, meager steel still flashing in the brilliant midday sun. But Arthur was toying with him, drawing the fight out, as he would while training a young squire back in Camelot.

Finally, Gael was prostrate on the ground and covered in a sheen of sweat while Arthur brandished his sword at his throat. "Wh-Where did you learn to fight like that?" the boy asked breathlessly as he gaped up at Arthur.

He reached down and pulled Gael up from the ground. "It just comes to me naturally," he answered with a laugh. Arthur looked up at the small crowd that had gathered, clapping, and locked eyes with a disapproving Merlin. His arms were crossed over his chest in that stubborn way he had.

Arthur rolled his eyes and groaned. As exhilarating as the spar had been, he was frustrated. The intervening months had dulled his reflexes. His grip had weakened- he could feel the strain on his wrist already. He didn't need an I-know-best lecture from the likes of Merlin. He was supposed to have left that behind with his father and his crown.

He turned and trudged back to the forge, knowing Merlin would follow him to nag, and he wasn't disappointed when after a few minutes he heard a huffed sigh from behind.

"Are you going to sulk behind me the rest of the day?"

"I'm not sulking _,_ Arthur." His voice was irritated and a touch whiny.

"If this is you _not_ sulking—"

"Fine, whatever! You already know what I'm going to say. What were you thinking picking up that sword?" Merlin demanded.

"I was thinking that a harmless spar with a squire wouldn't hurt anyone!" Arthur insisted. An itching feeling of annoyance was creeping along his skin.

Merlin flung out his hands in a gesture of helpless frustration. "He's not a squire, Arthur! He's a village boy who has delusions of being a solider. He is no match for a trained knight—"

Here Merlin cut himself off, glancing around surreptitiously. The market wasn't bustling but neither was it empty of people. They walked in silence until they reached the forge. Once inside, Merlin rounded on him again, but he seemed more collected and he opened his mouth confidently like he'd had time to marshal his arguments.

"You can't go around swinging a sword. You don't realize how much attention that draws in a place like this- you'd be hard pressed to find a villager with talent and adequate training enough to even spar with you." Despite Merlin's chastising words, Arthur felt a bit of smug pleasure at the indirect compliment.

He must have seen Arthur's expression, however, because he rolled his eyes and continued. "Just be careful, okay? We don't need anyone to realize that you're a trained knight of Camel—"

Merlin cut himself off abruptly and his eyes widened just a fraction as he looked over Arthur's shoulder. Even as he whirled around and caught sight of Griff standing behind them in the entrance of the forge, Merlin had recovered and barely missed a beat before he was grinning warmly and greeting him. Arthur struggled to mimic Merlin's surprising composure. When had he become so slick and practiced with secrets?

Arthur had the strangest feeling that Merlin didn't even notice how adept he was at hiding behind a cheery façade. And the thought made him feel a bit queasy.

He quickly forgot his unease. Griff hadn't responded to Merlin's cheerful hallo. His craggy face was inscrutable. Arthur had always felt fairly comfortable around the man. He was Alric's father, and had been the one to push his son into the blacksmith trade. Generally, Griff was congenial and easygoing, if a bit rough around the edges. Arthur had felt some odd kinship with him when he found out Griff and his son had fled Camelot years ago.

Now there was a curious growl in his tone as he spoke. The tall, thick man loomed in the doorway, his head nearly brushing the wooden lintel above.

"So, Arthur. How long do you and your lovely wife plan on staying in our humble town?" Griff had his thick, hairy arms crossed over his chest in a posture that niggled at Arthur's battle instincts.

He hid his wariness with a smile. "Why, I don't know, Griff. Guinevere sure enjoys all of the friends she's made here. I couldn't bear to make her leave just yet. Besides, I would have to find good, solid work before we move on."

"Would you not consider Camelot?"

Arthur's shoulders stiffened. Setting down his blunt sword, he turned to face the man. Even Griff noticed the cool tone that crept into his voice. "I don't want to go to Camelot."

Arthur could see the veins standing out on Griff's meaty fists as he clenched his tunic tight in his fingers. "And why is that, Arthur? Is there something there you're afraid of? Or someone?" Griff ground his words out between his teeth.

"What are you accusing me of, Griff?" Short and to the point was best, he'd found.

"I saw you by the well just now. Sparring with Gael. You're no ordinary blacksmith, boy. Never seen one could fight like you. I'd bet my best filly you trained as a knight." Griff spat in the dirt. "Why're you here? This town's peaceful. We don't want no trouble if you got Knights o' Camelot chasing after ya."

"I'm not a knight—"

"Oh, spare me the silver tongue. What'd you expect, I wouldn't notice? Using the missing Prince's name as your own? For shame." Griff's frown deepened, if possible.

Arthur couldn't seem to think up anything to refute Griff's claims. How in the blazes did Merlin do this? Beneath the man's bushy eyebrows and sharp dark-eyed gaze Arthur could do no more than agree.

He chewed on his lip for a moment. "Fine."

Griff raised said bushy eyebrows.

"I am a Knight of Camelot. When the Prince disappeared… the King forbade any of the knights to go after him. But I left. I had to… to go looking for him, to make sure he stayed safe." That was almost all true, Arthur figured. The Prince also held the position of the First Knight of Camelot.

"Then what the hell are you doing here, boy?" Griff demanded.

Once again, Arthur was gaping at him in surprise.

"We're waiting for him." Merlin suddenly interjected.

"Why would the Prince come here?" Griff asked warily.

"Well, think about it. This is the closest town to the road to Cenred's castle. When he comes back to Camelot, he'll have to go south around the Ridge of Ascetir. No sense crossing that and going through the Forest too."

He shrugged. "There're only a few other towns this close to the border. Flintbridge has a garrison of Camelot soldiers ten miles outside. Willoughby can only be approached on this side of the border by boat, and he won't want to part with any money. Besides, transporting that many horses over the river when it's this deep? Not a feasible plan. But there's a bridge here. Big enough for his entire party."

Merlin's information was so matter-of-fact that if Arthur hadn't been the Crown Prince of Camelot himself he would've believed it. As it was, Griff seemed to have swallowed the story. For the most part.

"Why would the Prince be in Essetir?"

That had been the question Arthur wanted answered as well, but that would have aroused suspicion that he didn't know the plan he'd supposedly concocted. No one would believe a servant engineered the entire scheme.

Merlin seemed surprised Griff had to ask. "He's gathering his support. Hadn't you heard Cenred's army was massing to the east?"

Griff nodded quickly. "Of course. Sure I've heard."

"They've entered in a secret pact with Prince Arthur. Cenred's armies are going to help him claim the throne from his father. In return, the Prince will be pledged to marry King Cenred's niece."

Arthur fought to keep his eyes from bulging out of his head at the blatant net of lies Merlin was weaving. A half-smile flitted across the servant's lips and he leaned forward, half-conspiratorial and half-amused.

"Course I've heard this niece is a bit too fond of her sweetcakes, if you know what I mean," Merlin whispered. "The Prince might regret that bit of the agreement."

Griff let out a startled guffaw. "Boy, that mouth of yours is going to get you killed someday!" He clapped a meaty hand on Merlin's shoulder, still chuckling.

Arthur finally found his voice again. "I believe this goes without saying, Griff, but you can't reveal our true motives to any of the citizens here. I know this is too much of us to ask, but you mustn't let your duty to your former country—"

Griff caught him off guard by laughing once again. "What duty? You've got nothing to worry about from me, Sir. I'd do anything to have the Prince on the throne instead of that lying—"

"Thank you Griff. That truly means a great deal coming from a man of your standing." Merlin shook his hand and Griff nodded proudly before excusing himself. Arthur's fist clenched tightly as he disappeared over the threshold into the falling night.

"That man is lucky you interrupted him. I still have my sword."

Merlin sighed. "Well?"

"Well what?"

With an exasperated flail of his arms, Merlin stepped closer. "Well how about an 'I told you so'?"

Arthur turned back to his horseshoe. "I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"Griff couldn't have had better timing! This was exactly what I was afraid of!" Merlin's face was so red Arthur was afraid he'd birth a cow right there on the floor of the forge. He considered telling that to the dark-haired boy but Merlin spoke first. "I knew that sword would be dangerous."

"That's sort of the purpose, Merlin."

Rolling his eyes, Merlin went to leave. "You just couldn't keep your sweaty hands off anything with a point. You're lucky I was there to save you. I thought you would choke on your own spit before you gave Griff a believable answer. No imagination."

Before Arthur could retaliate or demand to know where Merlin had come up with such a ludicrous story, he disappeared into the shadows.


	5. Chapter 5

The night of Samhain was clear and crisp. The nip in the wind was brisk enough to raise color on the cheeks of the children, but gentle enough that Gwen was comfortable in her woolen cloak. She suspected once Griff and Alric lit the fires, she might even have to unfasten it.

Gwen glanced up at the wooden effigy that would soon be afire. The skeleton of sticks and branches towered above her head, forming a crude representation of a man. Breela told her it was supposed to one of the river sprites. When she had looked at the older woman askance, Breela had chuckled. "I had forgotten you come from across the border. I feel as if you have always been here," she said.

Her friend explained that the sprites often drowned children in the river- the Southern Tail, which wound through a floodplain east of the village and formed part of the border between Essetir and Camelot. The evil little creatures were blue-skinned with warts all over. Breela had caught of one her children up in her arms and pinched their cheeks over and over as they squealed. "Warts here and here and here!" she cried as Gwen had giggled.

She could see Breela now, on the other side of the square standing next to the well with two of her daughters. The woman had a stern face, lined and square-jawed. Gwen admitted to herself that she had been intimidated the first time they had met, but when she saw Breela with her children, there was no doubting her good nature.

Waving as she caught her eye, she picked up her basket and approached. "Breela," she greeted warmly.

Breela fussed at Gwen's hair in a motherly fashion that made her heart ache in remembrance of an old wound. Gwen smiled down at Samra, who gave her a timid smile in return. Little Cailis was happy as always, running to her and hugging her legs. The girl's blonde hair caught the light of the torches scattered throughout the square.

She couldn't help but be particularly fond of the littlest daughter. Every time she saw a blonde head scurrying round her feet _,_ her heart quivered and she imagined a blonde daughter of her own, tugging on her hand like Cailis tugged on Breela's.

As if she could read Gwen's thoughts, Breela nudged her shoulder. "And where's that handsome husband of yours? You'd best be careful about letting him wander tonight, with all these girls and the spirits of mischief about."

"Samra thinks Arthur is pretty enough to be a prince."

"Cay!" Samra shrieked, lunging at her sister. The girl howled with laughter and took off. The sisters chased each other around the stone well.

Breela shook her head. "Those two are like fire and water. Can't get a moment's peace in my house with their older sister gone."

Gwen forced herself to breathe. The mention of a prince had stopped her cold, her fear a heavy stone in her chest. She scrambled for the subject that Breela had provided. "Yes- Tyna- how is she doing with her grandmother? Does she write you? Is she coming home soon?"

Perhaps she had spoken too quickly. Breela gave her a strange look, but shrugged and answered. "A letter or two. Tyna's not much of a writer, truth be told, and Jep has to read the letters for me. She'll stay the winter with my mother and likely be home to help with the spring planting."

Caylis attempted to dart past her mother's legs. Breela caught her by the arm. "Now, you stop your running about. You'll lose your charm if you keep this up." Breela fingered the braided red thread tied about Caylis' wrist. There were several items dangling from the bracelet. Gwen gently pulled the girl's arm towards herself to get a better view.

Breela noticed her interest. "Ah, I thought you might not have one. They're to ward off evil. The veil is thin this night. The Otherworld is just a step away." She fingered one of the charms. A delicate, curved fragment of bone, likely from a bird or other fowl. "Bone. A relic of the grave to hide from the eyes of spirits."

Gwen swallowed and revised her previous conclusion about the charm. Breela continued, tapping the small square charm next to it. "Iron, to ward off the fae. And the sunblossom for witches and their enchantments."

"Did you make these yourself?"

"Sure I did. And I just so happened to have made one for you." Breela pulled another red bracelet from around her own wrist and fastened it for Gwen.

"Thank you. You are very thoughtful."

Both of the women turned at Griff's shout. "Gather round! Gather round for the lighting!"

Gwen found Arthur and Merlin standing together in the modest crowd. Last Samhain, she had attended- or rather, served- at a grand feast in an elegant castle. Gwen found she much preferred this small village square and the company of commoners.

She rested her hand in Arthur's as Griff and Alric took their torches to either side of the wooden idol. The base must have been drenched in oil or animal fat, for great tongues of orange fire leapt forth with vigor to devour its legs.

The villagers led a rousing cheer. Arthur studied the effigy curiously. "We don't have any such customs in Camelot."

Gwen was surprised to see Merlin shudder next to him. "I'm glad of that."

"Why?" she inquired.

He shook his head slowly. "It looks too much like a man burning on a pyre."

A chill swept through her chest. She glanced back to the effigy and tried to recall the beauty of the flames, but was unable to shake Merlin's macabre image. The carved wooden mouth gaped open like it was screaming.

Arthur frowned at the former manservant. "You sure know how to spoil a celebration, Merlin."

He smiled weakly, but to Gwen, he still seemed disturbed. Merlin noticeably averted his eyes from the burning idol. "It's somewhat of a specialty of mine," he joked.

The sudden turn the mood had taken was simply a harbinger of the night to come.

Arthur had gone to fetch spiced cider. Gwen was eagerly anticipating the warm drink when Merlin noticed Breela's bracelet. She saw his dark blue eyes dart over the peculiar charms.

"Where did you get this?" he asked tersely.

She startled a bit at his tone. "Breela… Breela made it for me."

"May I?" he requested without raising his gaze from the bracelet.

Proffering her wrist, she watched him examine it. After several moments, he released a gust of breath. "Oh. Wonderful. Very kind of her. The St. John's wort is a nice touch."

"You know what this is?"

"Protection charms. Why? Didn't she tell you?"

"No, no, she did. I just didn't expect… I had never seen its like in Camelot." Gwen commented. She was intrigued at Merlin's reaction. He'd seemed almost worried at first.

Merlin pursed his lips. "Not terribly shocking, I suppose. Uther would have no doubt been suspicious of items claiming to protect the wearer from magical maladies. Sort of like an amulet." He glanced at her and seemed encouraged to go on. "Amulets can come in numerous forms, but at their most basic, they're physical items embedded with protective or healing magic. Formerly very common in Camelot, according to Gaius."

For once, Merlin didn't seem upset at the mention of his mentor. Gwen was pleased to see nothing but thoughtful interest in his features. He offered a brief smile. "Keep it on, if you would. I'd feel better knowing you have it. Especially tonight."

"Tonight… Samhain. Breela said as much too. Is it true? About the veil being thinner this night than the rest of the year?"

Merlin shrugged. "Gaius had mentioned it in passing. He said that spirits were allowed to slip through the Veil this night only to visit their family and their land. Some people leave a candle burning in the window to help them find their way home. I always thought that was kind of lovely."

Gwen trained her eyes on her feet. The question came easier when she didn't have to see Merlin's face. "Do you think… I mean, if I lit a candle here, even though we aren't in Camelot…"

His hand lightly squeezed her shoulder. "I think your mother and father considered _you_ to be their home." Merlin titled her chin up. "It's a good idea, Gwen."

She suddenly felt the urge to rush home. What if their spirits were out there, wandering through the dark, looking for her in Camelot? Would Elyan light a candle for them? Did he even know?

Beyond the obscure silhouettes of village homes, the black expanse of countryside seemed impossibly wide. Gwen squinted at the hidden horizon, wondering at the leagues they had traveled.

Lost in her thoughts, it took her a moment to notice the faint flickering lights. She frowned and turned to Merlin. The glow was distant, but appeared to be growing.

"Do you see that?"

Gwen pointed and Merlin followed her finger. He tilted his head in deliberation. "It looks like…"

His spine abruptly stiffened. "…torches. More than one." Gwen's heart skipped a beat. Merlin spun around, searching the crowd. "Gods, where did Arthur go? Send him to do one errand…"

The crowd was too thick to see through the bodies, constrained as they were with their backs to the blazing bonfire. She wanted to shove through them, push them out of the way, but Arthur was supposed to meet them here. She didn't want to him to come back and find them gone.

A rustle spread through the gathered villagers like a boulder dropped into a pond. Whispers became shouts, which soon turned to screams. Gwen could see the outline of the horses now. And their riders, brandishing torches and steel.

"Dear gods, they're spirits! Come to avenge their deaths on the living!"

She wasn't sure who had shouted that, but it sparked off a panic, sending people fleeing every which way through the square. Knocked back into Merlin with a stray elbow, Gwen struggled to catch her breath through the sharp pain in her ribs. He pulled her upright, and tugged her along.

"Arthur!" Merlin called frantically.

She added her own voice, but despaired of being heard through the turmoil. Breela was nowhere to be seen. Gwen spared a moment to be grateful she and her daughters were out of the fray.

 _Arthur!_ Her heart screamed at her as she stumbled over a stray log that had tumbled from the bonfire. The orange light bred by the flames took on a sinister aspect among the frightened horde.

And she heard his voice.

"Calm yourselves!" He was shouting at the top of his lungs from his perch on one of the tables laden with festive treats. "Hear me and be calm!"

Arthur's foot had landed directly in a fruit tart. Gwen felt tears of relief springing to her eyes. His speech was forceful, ringing out over those remaining, who eventually began to quiet.

"Village elders, gather here before me! Those of you with children, take them home. The rest of you, if you could stand back, but stay in the square. These are Cenred's soldiers that approach. I do not know what they want, but a show of numbers would not do us harm."

No one argued. Merlin slipped through the tense crowd until they were just below Arthur. He glanced down and winked at her. She simultaneously wanted to kiss him and yank him down from his precarious position.

Instead, he jumped back onto the packed dirt, leaving a sturdy wooden plank and a whole roast fowl between them.

"What exactly are you planning to do?" Merlin hissed at him.

Arthur snatched a dagger from a half-eaten plate and made a show of wiping off the grease. "Let's find out, shall we?" he said with mocking joviality.

She lurched forward and bumped into the table that he had likely put between them on purpose. "Arthur—"

Before she could utter any admonition, he hailed the approaching soldiers.

"Greetings!" he bellowed into the gloom. He paused while they cantered to a stop. Gwen was positive they only halted because Arthur was within the distance a nocked arrow could fly. She counted perhaps ten or fifteen, all on horseback. Several carried torches, casting shadows upon their countenances.

"This village receives you. Come, partake in our cider and our meat. A Samhain feast is welcome to all." Gwen could hear the artificial cheer in his tone. "Else we might have a share of bad fortune!"

A chestnut mare trotted forward, carrying a wiry, red-bearded man on her back. "Well, we mustn't let that happen on our account. We'll take your meat and ale." Nudging his horse on, the soldier sneered. "While you're at it, we'll have your grain and livestock too."

"You would spurn our hospitality and resort to theft?" Arthur asked sternly.

"Ain't theft. We're here by the order of King Cenred. Your village has been chosen to supply his army. Our army, now that we've received our silver." The ginger soldier gave a mock bow. "Many thanks."

Every single one of his men laughed boisterously. Gwen's mind raced. How could they refuse an order from King Cenred? She didn't know much regarding the man. Was he liable to sack and burn a village for refusal? And here she'd thought she'd never be grateful for Uther.

Arthur shifted his weight ever so slightly forward, as if he wanted to march right up to the horse but was holding himself back. "I'm afraid you and your company will have to look elsewhere for supplies. The harvest this year was poor. Barely sufficient for our own means."

The man glanced at the spread behind Arthur. "Hmm. Coulda fooled me." He hopped down from the saddle, landing hard on the earth. "You look like a respectable man. You wouldn't refuse your king's command, now, would you?"

"Not a _just_ command."

Gwen winced. Sometimes, Arthur was too damn honest. The soldier's question had fallen too close to the mark. He would be thinking of his father and his own disobedience. Guilt, sharp and stinging, rose up into her throat like so many knives. She swallowed harshly.

The soldier cocked his head and huffed a laugh. "The correct answer was 'no,' ya lousy fool." He stalked up to Arthur, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Bit by bit, he unsheathed the blade, locking stares with Arthur all the while.

"Let's see if you can answer this one right." The sword was fully drawn. "Are you lying to me, fool?"

Gwen's heart pounded as the soldier rested the point of his sword under Arthur's chin. She could imagine the defiant gleam in his eyes even though she all she could see was the back of his blond head.

 _No, Arthur! Don't you dare!_

He didn't acknowledge her screaming thoughts. Her husband scoffed. "You would threaten an unarmed villager with your sword? Have you no honor?"

The older man spit onto the dirt. "What would you know about honor, peasant? I didn't come to listen to your whinging." The tip of the steel pressed against skin. "I asked you a question."

Gwen realized she was crushing Merlin's hand in her own. She glanced up at him. The former manservant had an uncharacteristically severe expression on his face. She didn't release her death-grip, as Merlin appeared an instant away from leaping in front of the sword.

Arthur slowly shook his head. "I do not take orders from cowards. That means you and your king. _Fool_."

The soldier seemed honestly confused by Arthur's resistance. "I dunno that you're really in a position to argue, friend," he said with a tinge of smug annoyance.

Arthur went nearly cross-eyed as he glanced down at the offending blade. "That is fine workmanship." Gwen exchanged a worried glance with Merlin. He shook his head minutely at her, blue eyes wide.

"Too fine for the likes of you."

Gwen nearly choked on her surprise as Arthur struck out with one quick jab of his right hand, grasping the man's wrist and twisting hard. The movement must have been too fast for the older soldier. He cried out sharply, fingers splaying open, and the sword clattered to the ground. Arthur bent and retrieved it.

Barely two heartbeats had passed. He turned the swordpoint to its owner's throat. "I think I will relieve you of it."

Gwen couldn't tell exactly from her vantage point, but it seemed as if Arthur kicked him hard on the side of the knee. Cenred's lackey crumpled with a screech of pain.

Arthur casually twirled the sword in his grip as he faced the other men. "Would you care to lose your swords as well?"

The red-bearded man stumbled towards his companions, unarmed except for his voice. "Attack, you blasted cowards! Attack, I say!" he bellowed.

His men exchanged glances. Through some soundless conversation whose meaning was impenetrable to her, the soldiers came to a decision. As one, they wrenched on their reins and galloped off in the direction they had come.

The chestnut mare stomped and huffed, trailing uncertainly after her fellows. The deserted leader tried unsuccessfully to capture her reins in his grip. "Stay still, you ill-tempered beast!" he demanded.

Arthur waited until he'd finally clambered ungracefully upon the long-suffering mare and went in pursuit of his wayward men, shooting an ugly look back at the defiant village.

Her husband turned to the gathered crowd. He shrugged, hefting the silver sword onto one shoulder. "Mercenaries, I suppose. You get what you pay for."

The relief burst through her chest and she released a great gust of air. A cheer, greater than that which had greeted the traditional bonfire, broke out.

Arthur acknowledged the hand-clasping and back-slapping with the grace of a noble used to such enthusiastic obeisance. Merlin scoffed and kicked at the dirt as he approached the pair.

"You've got to be the luckiest clotpole alive. I can't believe that worked for you."

Arthur waved off Merlin's statement with a suspiciously haughty gesture. It reminded her of the easy confidence he'd always carried as a prince, bordering on arrogance. That had always irked Gwen while she was a handmaiden. Just the sheer thoughtlessness of his entitlement. While she worked in the castle and worked in her father's smithy and worked to keep their home.

Now, she found herself beaming at him. Fate had an unexpected way of turning everything on its head, Gwen was certain. One only had to look so far as Camelot's prince-turned-peasant to be sure of that much.


	6. Chapter 6

Not for the first time, Merlin stared out the window at the distant silver gleam of the river and wondered if he'd made the right decision.

He felt as if he was treading on ice. One false step, one slip, and the freezing water would swallow them all. Soldiers were about, raiding the countryside. On a whim, Cenred could send more to decimate their village as punishment. And it seemed Arthur was dedicated to outing himself as the Prince of Camelot to anyone who would pay the closest bit of attention.

Leaving Camelot behind was supposed to be the solution. Not a permanent one, no, he'd never believed that. Morgana would always be there, waiting for him and Arthur when they returned, a perpetual specter behind the throne. But fleeing Camelot and Uther was supposed to give them all a reprieve from the constant danger.

Merlin tried to imagine Gaius' reassuring voice in his head. All he could hear was, "Merlin, you idiot!"

He hoped Gaius was still puttering about in his chambers, mixing tonics and tending to his patients. Morgana wouldn't interfere with him. She got what she wanted, hadn't she? Arthur fled. Arthur gave up his throne and paved the way for Morgana to slither into Camelot's line of succession, as far as she was concerned.

Of course, Merlin knew that he couldn't let her succeed Uther. Arthur's destiny was to become the greatest king Camelot had ever seen. Once he'd stopped being a blacksmith, that is.

If anything, Merlin thought their little sojourn into the life of a peasant would only enhance Arthur's kingly qualifications. After all, what was a king without true compassion? And compassion was borne from understanding.

Now if he could only get Arthur to live life as a sorcerer for a bit.

Merlin shook his head. He wasn't being fair to the prince. Arthur _had_ eventually come round to the Druids. There was no denying the man was stubborn, but he wasn't blind either. He'd seen their peaceful customs and experienced their remarkable hospitality. Magic was an afterthought to them. Just a special skill possessed by some, and not by others. Merlin wished everyone viewed magic like that. Unremarkable for its very familiarity.

Perhaps some day.

Glancing up at the sky, Merlin noted the position of the sun. Just before sunset. And not a cloud in the brilliant late afternoon sky—

"Oh, curse it all!" He leapt up with sudden urgency. Arthur was waiting for him at the forge, he'd promised to bring supper, and now the prat was likely fuming at his absence.

Sprinting down the road with a basket tucked under his arm, he still managed to wave at those he passed. Most of the villagers chuckled at the sight of him. His lack of punctuality was unfortunately familiar to them. In all honesty, Arthur should be used to it by now as well. Somehow Merlin doubted he would laugh it off.

Arthur had relaxed a bit since they'd come to Colembria. The pressure of his title and his father's strict expectations no longer weighed him down. But Merlin could tell he still felt the burden of his duty to Camelot. The shadow in his eyes some evenings, and his occasional melancholy silences hinted at the guilt he felt. He never mentioned as much to Merlin- of course- but he knew.

He ducked into the forge, panting for breath. Arthur turned from the window. "Do my eyes deceive me? Could it be?" He asked with exaggerated disbelief. "Is it truly you, Merlin?"

"Ha-ha."

"You do me a great honor by gracing me with your presence, my lord!"

"Shut it, Arthur. Take your supper."

The blonde grinned toothily. Merlin eyed him suspiciously. "What's got you so cheery?" He hadn't even thrown the hammer at Merlin. If only Arthur had left that particular habit behind in Camelot.

"Why, I'm glad you asked." Arthur bounded over to the worktop and grasped the longsword resting on its surface. He brandished the steel in the air, slashing up and down for Merlin's benefit.

"Nice, isn't it, Merlin?"

Merlin glanced at the dark steel. Though rough in composition and lacking in decoration, the shape of the blade was rather well-formed. He thought of the gleaming silver and gold of the dragon's blade.

Shrugging, he gave a noncommittal grunt. "I dunno. I've seen better."

Arthur looked like he'd tasted something sour. " _Better_? Where? Perhaps my sword in Camelot, but we're not-"

"Nah. Better than that one, too. And I should know. I polished the blasted thing enough."

"That's- no, that's just not possible. What manner of blade was this?" Arthur demanded.

"Longsword, of course. Sharper than any of its brethren."

"Who made this blade? How?"

Merlin struggled not to guffaw at Arthur's supremely offended expression. "Well, I'll tell you this much. The fires that forged that blade were much hotter than any you've got here."

"Do I know this supposed master swordsmith, Merlin? Or are you telling tales again?" Arthur bent back over his sword, needlessly sharpening it one more time and pretending not to glance over his shoulder, waiting for his response.

He felt a bemused smile cross his face. "In a manner of speaking." Merlin hopped up from the floor. "Well, I'll be seeing you after sundown!"

Merlin skipped out of the forge with a grin on his face and the sound of Arthur's grumbling behind him.

With the smile still lingering, he almost knocked straight into Clara. "Whoa- sorry," he said.

Brynn, Clara and Jacob's older brother, held her close with an arm around her shoulders. Her face was pale and drawn, her dark eyes red-rimmed. Merlin's smile faded.

"Clara? Are you alright?" His voice was pitched higher with concern. The sound must have drawn Arthur out of the forge. He appeared at Merlin's side, a piece of chicken still hanging out of his mouth.

Gwen came hurrying down the path from the center of village behind the pair of siblings, ostensibly trying to catch up. "Clara!" she called. "Wait! What is it?"

The young woman buried her head in her brother's chest and began to cry. Brynn's gaze darted between the three of them. He got the sense Brynn felt cornered and tried to speak gently.

"What's the matter?" Merlin asked them quietly. Clara sobbed harder.

Her older brother, mouth set in a grim line, answered for her. "It's Jacob. He's been…" Brynn hesitated and Merlin felt a shiver of worry and the weight of foreboding, a sensation he hadn't experienced since their flight from Camelot.

Clara's hands dropped from her face and balled into fists at her sides. "It's not true!" she insisted. "He didn't do anything, he hasn't got any, they're wrong!" Her voice was choked and her breathing ragged.

Arthur hovered awkwardly a few paces away, watching with a concerned and a bit terrified expression. Gwen came forward and touched Clara on the shoulder. "I believe you," she said firmly. "But why don't you tell us what happened?"

She swallowed a few times before answering. "We were in Flintbridge, the village ten miles or so down the river, across the border in Camelot. We heard shouting, from the center of the market. Jacob wanted to go see what all the commotion was. He dragged me away from our stall, to the center of the crowd. "

Clara tucked her brown hair behind her ear. Her voice was unsteady as she continued. "It was… there were people. Five or six of them, bound hand and foot. I thought they were thieves or something, caught by the town guard. But the soldiers weren't wearing Camelot's colors. Their surcoats were black."

She shook her head vigorously. "It didn't make any sense! One of them held up this big, gnarled grey root. His fellows started chanting, over and over, but I couldn't understand the words. And then…." Clara choked on a sob.

"And then Jacob, he collapsed, next to me. He was holding his ears, and it sounded as if he was in pain, but there was nothing I could hear! I was trying to get Jacob back on his feet when the black soldiers pulled him from my grasp. They just took him!"

Merlin stood stock still, jaw clenched, while he listened. Magic. It must be. The root Clara mentioned matched the description of mandrake. The way she recounted Jacob's reaction reminded him of his own experience with the root. The characteristic, piercing cry could only be heard by those who practiced magic. He remembered the awful noise only too well from when he'd tossed the enchanted root under Uther's bed into the fire. The selective sound would explain why only Jacob and a few others crumpled in pain, clutching at their ears.

Merlin formerly suspected the lad had magic, and now he was certain of it. Jacob wasn't very subtle. He liked to play with the fire, weaving the smoke into varied shapes. Merlin hadn't done so since the debacle with the witchfinder Aredian, but he recognized the whimsical technique. Not to mention that the few times he'd been round their home, Jacob had finished his chores extraordinarily quickly. Clara had given him a very stern glare and they'd had a whispered argument while glancing over at Merlin.

He swallowed uncomfortably. If mandrake root was being exploited to identify those with magic… no sorcerer was safe. How could one control an involuntary reaction to such sharp pain? Merlin wasn't very familiar with the root, beyond its use in enchantments meant to disturb the mind, as Morgana had done to Uther. To have such knowledge of its properties, coupled with the spell Clara heard, meant that at least one of those black soldiers was a sorcerer.

A group of sorcerers performing magic just inside Uther's kingdom. Were they mad? And why on earth were they kidnapping their kin?

Clara grasped her older brother's hands desperately. "I tried to get him back, Brynn! I chased after the cart, but they had hitched horses and—"

Brynn knelt next to her and pulled their clasped hands to his chest. "It's not your fault, Clara. They could have killed you."

Merlin came forward, stepping around Gwen. "If they've taken him, they won't harm him. They want him for some reason." Of that, Merlin was sure. They could've executed the suspected sorcerers on the spot. Why waste the effort to isolate those with magic and drag them off to simply kill them in another location?

"That means we can get him back as soon as we learn where they've gone."

Clara gazed intently at him, as if trying to discern the veracity of his words. The young woman's eyes filled with tears. Slowly, she nodded.

Gwen regarded him with a hint of bewilderment. He could feel Brynn and Arthur's eyes on him as well.

"You know who took him, Merlin?" Arthur demanded with all the authority of his nonexistent position. Gods, but he could sound like a king when he wanted to.

Merlin looked at Brynn instead of Arthur. "Witchfinders."

Brynn's brown eyes widened- but not in surprise. Terror filled them. Merlin was familiar with such a distinct kind of terror. The fear of exposure, the fear of the bringing to light of secrets. Merlin tried to ensure Brynn could see the reassurance in his eyes, but wasn't certain if he succeeded.

"I've got to take Clara home, she's upset," Brynn said quickly. He sidestepped Merlin and Arthur, pulling a disoriented Clara with him, and began to continue past the forge toward their shared home on the edges of their fields. Merlin sighed.

Arthur seemed just as confused as Clara. "How do you—are you sure, I mean, the Witchfinder is dead!"

Gwen had gone pale at the reminder of Aredian. "Yes, he's dead. But that doesn't mean he was the only witchfinder in the five kingdoms. Although I don't know why this group was using magic to root out their own kin." He frowned in contemplation.

"Magic?" Arthur queried. "How do you know all of this, Merlin?"

Merlin coughed nervously before replying. "I haven't known anyone to chant in a foreign language over and over unless they were performing some sort of ritual, have you? And I, uh, did a bit of reading up on witchfinders after Aredian nearly had Gaius executed. I wanted to know if it could ever happen again. You'd be surprised how much has been written about such methods."

Arthur didn't seem convinced. "And it was me who was accused as well, if you recall, so I had a bit of a personal interest in the subject," he added.

Arthur frowned but nodded.

"But why is a group of witchfinders going around these small villages?" Gwen said. "And how do you know they're not taking Jacob straight to Uther to be executed? You told Clara he'd be safe." Her voice had a bit of an accusing tone. Gwen knew very well if an accused sorcerer came into Uther's clutches they would never escape with their life.

Merlin ignored Arthur's grimace and answered Gwen. "They used magic to find him. They can't take him to Uther and tell him that. He'd execute them all."

"What if they lied? Said they caught _him_ using magic?"

"But they performed magic in the middle of Flintbridge, in full view of all the townspeople. They must know word's going to get back to the king. They have to be collecting sorcerers for another purpose."

As Merlin mused aloud, a chill told him he had come to the correct conclusion. "But… who would be collecting sorcerers?"

 _Morgana_ , Merlin thought. He hesitated. If he revealed Morgana's treachery now, would they believe him? What if Arthur was furious that they'd left behind a traitor with his father?

"Well?"

Arthur's sharp voice cut into his thoughts. "Morgause," Merlin found himself saying. "Maybe it's Morgause."

Reaching his hand around to clench the hilt of his sword, Arthur realized it wasn't there and cursed, before balling his hands into fists.

Merlin turned his head to the east, toward Flintbridge and Camelot and where these witchfinders were most likely keeping Jacob and other magic users. The river he'd been gazing at earlier was engulfed by the shadows of nightfall.

And the ice kept cracking underneath him.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: _Hi everybody... sorry this took so long, I just started a new job and it sucks. Also just wanted to say thanks so much for the reviews! I haven't quite figured out how to respond to anything haha... but know that I definitely read them and appreciated them. This is my first story so they have given me a ton of encouragement. I wrote this for my own enjoyment and didn't really expect anyone to read it. Anyway, thanks y'all! 3_

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Her footsteps rang hollow through the deserted corridor. The moon rose over the Lower Town; its silver crescent was thin but provided adequate enough light to see by. Besides, the darkness was her ally this night. It would not do to be followed.

At least, with no treacherous manservants underfoot, she could be reasonably certain no one would dare. Or bother. What harm could the court's pretty painted doll possibly cause?

Morgana had only just exited the corridor that led to her personal quarters when a most hateful voice hailed her. She struggled not to cringe at the sound of her name in his mouth.

"Morgana," Uther's summons rang down the stone corridor and she stopped in her tracks.

"I would have you dine with me, although the hour is late."

 _But Father, I have sorceresses to consort with and treasonous plots to hatch. There is no time for a leisurely dinner when one seeks to conquer a kingdom!_

Morgana inwardly smirked as she imagined the look on Uther's face if she declined his invitation with that particular excuse.

Instead, she turned with a regretful smile on her lips. "I would love nothing more, Uther. But I find myself quite tired and would retire to bed early this evening."

The king frowned ever so slightly. "Then where were you going?"

 _Ah._

She thought quickly. "I was headed to Gaius' chambers. To request a sleeping draught."

At the mention of her nightmares, Uther's frown softened into a concerned downturn of the lips. Morgana inwardly bristled. Now she'd never get rid of him.

"You should have sent your maidservant. Or had Gaius deliver the tonic to your chambers. If you are unwell—"

The false concern strained her meager patience. "Fine," she nearly snapped. Uther blinked. Forcing herself to gentle her tone, she continued, "You are right. I shall send my maidservant to Gaius and dine with you instead."

His features relaxed into a pleased smile. "Wonderful, my dear."

Even as she took supper with Uther and compelled herself to make polite conversation, Morgana was itching to be gone. Uther remarked on the unfavorably dry state of the chicken and she turned almost automatically, to catch Arthur's gaze and share an unspoken moment of exasperation, before she remembered. The chair across from her was empty. The king followed her gaze.

She and Uther stared at the gaping space before he cleared his throat and Morgana tore her eyes away.

Before he could school himself, Uther's expression drooped with weariness and something altogether close to despair. Morgana savored it briefly. _How must it feel, to know you have now abandoned both of your children?_

The wrathful thoughts did not have their usual strength, however. She struggled to put Arthur out of her mind.

He'd come to her before he fled. Whispering a hasty goodbye, giving her a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. Arthur wasn't fond of such gestures, so he had surprised Morgana. Somehow, the touch of his lips burned her skin. She'd raised a hand to wipe it off spitefully after he'd left.

The affection had tasted all the more sour because she knew it was a deception. Even if Arthur didn't. It was a pretense, a pretense that would have quickly fallen away the moment he discovered her magic. Better to fight for her people and their freedom and lose his love as a casualty of war than to wait and watch it turn to poison.

She knew this, but sometimes she found herself slipping back into the routine of the past, when he hadn't been her brother by blood but heart. It was a cold irony that now she had learned of their shared father, and felt more distanced from him than ever.

Stabbing a piece of the inadequate chicken with her fork, Morgana tried to rein in her fickle thoughts. Lately, she was having trouble. Her hatred seemed to fluctuate from one moment to the next, until even Morgana could not anticipate who would become the subsequent target of that endless burning acid that lingered in her chest. This past year, after returning from her sanctuary with Morgause, her emotions raged with an intensity that kept her awake at night. If the nightmares did not keep her sleepless, her mundane dreams did.

She did not know if they were portents of the future, but they left a seeping dread coiling through the pit of her stomach regardless. She recalled them in startling flashes. Anything could trigger the hazy, half-remembered images. Light glinted on a silver goblet as she dined with Uther, and she could see the same shimmer on a bloody crown atop a golden head. A window slammed in a brisk wind and a scream echoed through her ears with enough force to topple ten riders from their saddles, their bodies colliding with the dirt. She thought she heard a whisper in the dark as she lay in bed, and Merlin's face swam before her, half in shadow, a ghastly cut across his cheek.

Swallowing a gulp of wine, she banished the dreams and the uncertainty from her mind. Her sister awaited her.

Excusing herself to bed after an appropriate amount of time, Morgana left the hall and retreated into the shadows. She slipped out past the stables, but did not stop to saddle a horse. The journey was not altogether far, and she wanted the opportunity to stretch her legs as well.

The horned moon had begun its descent when she reached the grove Morgause had shown her. It was an old Druid site, before they had been largely driven from the Darkling Woods by Uther's animosity. The rowan tree spread its wide branches over the still black pond. She shivered with the remnants of some forgotten power.

Morgause should have arrived before her. Unlike Morgana, she didn't have to waste precious minutes escaping the citadel and Uther's guards. The cover of darkness would only last for a few hours more.

She made a conscious effort to restrain her impatience. Morgana breathed the bracing air in deeply through her nose. At least out here, under the opaque shadows of the woodland, she felt unrestricted. Unbound from the shackles of the stifling court. The sensation was fleeting but so very cherished.

"Sister."

Blonde hair glinted in the fading moonlight. Morgana tried to muster a smile at the sight of the fellow sorceress. Irritation granted her expression a sharp edge. "The night grows short. I must return to Camelot soon."

Morgause raised an eyebrow. "I apologize for my tardiness. Cenred would not be placated easily."

"Why must you waste your time placating the man? He is serving our purpose, not the other way around," she snapped.

"We have need of his army, Morgana. Do not forget. This plan has been long in the making. If we are to succeed and ensure your position on the throne, we must be able to control the entirety of Camelot." Morgause's logic was cool and relentless.

Her hand grasped Morgana's tightly. "Cenred gathers his forces quickly. The time to march is almost upon us."

Morgana sighed. The distrust she felt for Cenred was too strong and persistent to simply let it go. "And we are to simply take his word that he means to support my succession and not suddenly discover his own ambitions for Camelot."

Her smile was slow and deadly as venom. "Even as Cenred musters his forces, we amass our own."

She released Morgana's hand. "How fares the tyrant king? Has his son's abandonment broken him yet?"

"Uther is a stubborn man," Morgana warned. "I have spent much time and more words trying to convince him of Arthur's corruption, yet he still clings to his heir." The darker haired sister huffed in frustration.

"How lucky he is to have such a loyal ward by his side in the midst of such turmoil," Morgause noted wryly.

Some of her tetchiness eased. "It is true. Uther depends on me more than ever with Arthur gone."

The blundering fool. He couldn't see past her devoted façade to the truth of her feelings. And why would he ever have the desire to look past the surface? As much as he'd claimed to love her, he'd never truly known her. She had the king's affection but not his understanding.

Morgause's deep brown eyes held a vindictive gleam that told Morgana _she_ understood perfectly.

"I await the news with bated breath," the blonde sorceress said with a sly twist of her lips, "that Uther has willingly crowned a witch as Queen of Camelot."


	8. Chapter 8

"I do not object to your intervention, young man." The elder squinted at him and Arthur struggled to keep his face impassive. "I simply question the wisdom of refusing the king."

 _Then perhaps you should have stood up and driven them off during the feast, instead of hiding behind me and then criticizing my methods._

He bit his tongue and forced the prickly thoughts down. The villagers had gathered in the feasting hall because they were worried and frightened. Not to spite him or his actions. Most of them, at least. He had a feeling there were several people simply here for the gossip.

"What choice did we have?" he asked. Addressing the crowd at large, he continued. "If we had turned over the harvest, we'd have starved in the depths of winter. Perhaps if we'd had some warning that enabled us to hide a good portion, but as it is…"

Even as the thought crossed his mind, he remembered Ealdor. The bandits led by Kanen had not been fooled. They'd searched the high and low until they uncovered all the nooks and crannies stuffed with goods. Hunith had told them so, desperate and quietly terrified, with those big blue eyes Merlin had inherited from her.

Arthur could not regret his defiance at the previous night's Samhain feast. Every course of action he considered led to the same conclusions. If they had not refused, they would have starved. There was enough goodwill between Colembria and the neighboring villages, Flintbridge and Willoughby, to rely on their food and aid for perhaps a month or two, but such an arrangement wasn't sustainable. Flintbridge might not have to worry about Cenred's conscription, protected as they were by Camelot's border and their fully manned garrison just outside, but the harvest hadn't been fruitful for any this year. The larders were perhaps half-full.

This winter would be harsh. He considered the prospect with distaste. The awful magical drought that had afflicted Camelot two years ago had been the most restriction Arthur suffered, nobly born as he was, and that hadn't lasted a season such as this might. He now had the first inklings that famine was a routine concern for peasants. The burden was one he was abstractly familiar with- as king, he would have been expected to ensure all of his people were provided for. But now the danger was intimate, the fear too personal and visceral when he couldn't observe from a distance up in his castle.

Another elderly man interjected. He looked suspiciously like the last that had spoken, although Arthur hadn't been paying close enough attention to be sure. "We could have come to some sort of an agreement with Cenred's party."

Gwen spoke up at his side. "But think what else they would have demanded of us if we had not complied and given over all our supplies. Something equal in value, at the very least. At worst, they would have taken some of the boys and men of fighting age to battle with them."

From the frown on her face, she did not think this an acceptable trade. Arthur firmly agreed with her. He squeezed her arm gently and they shared a warm glance.

He noticed young Gael, standing at his aged aunt's elbow, lift his fine practice sword up with a hopeful gleam in his eye. The matron batted his arm down and scowled him into submission. Arthur held back a chuckle and reminded himself to ask his caretaker later where he had acquired such a blade.

"What battle, though?" a young man with the patchy beginnings of a brown beard called out. "Why does Cenred ready his men to march?" The lad was of an age to be conscripted, and unlike Gael, did not seem enthused by the possibility.

Several shouted out theories, but Arthur held his tongue. That was the problem, wasn't it? They didn't know. He felt half-blind, stumbling around in the dark. There were no scouts to dispatch, no patrols to gather information. Only rumors and whispers among the commonfolk. Gritting his teeth, he shot a half-hearted glare at Merlin. When Arthur had wanted to discover Cenred's motives and his army's movements, Merlin was the one to dissuade him. It had frustrated him, and he still wasn't entirely sure why his former manservant had insisted.

Griff's voice was a deep rumble. "Cenred could be marching on Camelot." Arthur glanced sharply at him and nearly groaned when the blunt-featured man threw him a very unsubtle wink.

Gwen grimaced and her nails bit into Arthur's hand. Merlin's expression didn't flicker, but there was a tightness around his eyes that spoke of strain. Arthur quickly took up the idea and twisted it to prevent Griff from saying something revealing about the stupid plot Merlin had spun and spooned to him. Marry Cenred's niece. He'd as soon marry the slimy git himself.

"Cenred has always held a grudge against Camelot. He might mean to finally muster all his strength for an attempt on the citadel."

"All his strength, indeed. He is scouring the countryside for men and supplies, and has hired mercenaries. If this campaign does not succeed, Cenred will be ruined- his gold spent, his subjects dead, and his land barren. It is an ambitious plot," the elder Owain said. Arthur did not have many dealings with the man, but from the words he had heard spoken, Owain seemed steadfast and sure. His thoughts were carefully weighed and reasoned. Arthur was inclined to agree with his assessment.

And it worried him. Cenred had never been known to take such bold moves before he had made his pact with the sorceress Morgause. The woman was goading him somehow, for her own vendetta against Camelot. The memory of clashing blades with that rotted, skeletal army still sent shivers down his spine.

If Cenred were to march on Camelot, would the citadel fall? Could his father defend it against such overwhelming numbers? The sudden, itching need to do something overtook him and spurred his words to voice.

"We only have suspicion and speculation. If we are to defend this village, and ourselves, we need more solid, trustworthy information. I propose we send a party to east to Flintbridge and another north towards any settlement closer to Cenred's castle." He didn't actually know the names of villages in that area, as a true Essetirian might, but the townspeople knew he hailed from Camelot. Vaguely, he recalled Jacob saying something about an aunt that lived in the area.

With a small pang, he remembered that Jacob was still missing. He needed to seek out Clara and Brynn after the gathering. Perhaps they could ask after the witchfinders in addition to Cenred.

"Why send riders to Flintbridge?" Owain inquired mildly. "Cenred would not yet dare to breach the border and thus the treaty."

"There is a garrison of Camelot soliders nearby. Surely, if Uther knows of Cenred's ambitions, he would have sent scouting parties or patrols along the border. These soldiers are our best source for knowledge, especially if Uther has disseminated any orders among the garrisons bordering Essetir. They will be vigilant and alert," Arthur reasoned.

With a jolt, he realized he would not be able to join the party heading for Flintbridge. Too great a chance that a higher-ranking officer would recognize Camelot's former crown prince. He suppressed a sigh.

 _North it is,_ he thought. At least the journey would ease a bit of the restlessness he'd felt, sedentary as he was here in Colembria.

"In regards to defense, we need to organize a nightly watch. Three pairs in each of three shifts, to patrol the outskirts of the village and surrounding pastures in a random direction so as not to be predictable. And I suppose it wouldn't hurt to gather the young men together every night and drill some practice moves. How many swords would you say—"

Merlin coughed lightly and Arthur cut himself off. It occurred to him that dealing out plans and orders and expecting unquestioning obedience could be a bit presumptuous of him. From the wide eyes and raised eyebrows focused his way… maybe more than a bit. Inwardly, he cursed, and felt some small measure of guilt towards Merlin. The former manservant _had_ reminded him once or twice not to forget his new identity.

He carefully did not glance in the direction of the raven-haired head in the corner of his vision. "That is, only if we all agree to such a proposal," Arthur added, clearing his throat.

Griff jumped in and Arthur could have kissed his ruddy cheeks despite his earlier irritation with the man. "A fine proposal, I say! The lad has a good head on those broad shoulders."

Other murmurs of agreement surfaced throughout the crowd. Arthur didn't relax until Owain studied him thoughtfully, raised his gaze to meet Arthur's own, and nodded.

"Arthur, as you conceived this plan, will you lead the effort of gathering the men and necessary resources together?" Owain requested.

He nodded quickly.

The gathered villagers began to disperse now that a course had been decided upon. Several men lingered, drifting closer to Arthur in hopes of being chosen to accompany him on his scouting mission. He considered them shrewdly.

"I will head north," he said. "George, Orrin, Mors, Roland, will you ride with me?" Those he had named nodded their assent. They were all beyond Arthur in years, strong and capable. Orrin was handy with an axe and Roland often traveled around Essetir to varied markets, and thus knew the countryside well. The group he'd chosen would do admirably.

He caught Alric's hopeful gaze. The lad was young, but Arthur had come to rely on his steady presence at the forge and saw no reason why he could not come along. He glanced to Griff, who clapped a hand on his son's burly shoulder and gestured in the affirmative.

"Alric, there's no need for you to loll about in an empty forge and skip out on all the hard work. Will you accompany us?" Arthur asked with a small smirk.

"Yes, of course, Arthur," Alric said eagerly. "I can hunt and gather firewood and—"

His amusement was difficult to conceal, but Arthur hadn't been attending court since he was knee-high for nothing. He nodded solemnly and attentively as Alric stumbled over all his qualifications. The stolid young man did not have a gift for the spoken word.

Merlin had no compunctions against letting mirth grace his features. He grinned openly. Arthur already regretted having to send Merlin with the other party making for Camelot. His grumbling, complaining and bantering always shortened an otherwise dull journey. The prospect of days on horseback with no Merlin or Gwen to talk to had him internally groaning.

No sense in letting Merlin know that. He mercifully cut Alric off before he offered to chew Arthur's food for him too. "Merlin, you'll head to Flintbridge with Darryn, Gyl, and Uller. Griff, I know you may not want to return to Camelot, but you know the terrain and lay of the land. Would you consider riding with them?"

"Aye, Arthur. I'll not let my son have all the glory," Griff responded genially.

Before Arthur could continue, Merlin interrupted. "No, I'm going with you!" he blurted out loudly.

"We're going to split up," Arthur insisted. "You can make subtle inquiries regarding Jacob in Flintbridge as I will up north. Let me stress that again. _Subtle._ "

Merlin was shaking his head before he'd even finished. "No. I need to come with you."

"Why? So you can tuck me into my bedroll at night?" he asked with exasperated sarcasm.

"If you need tucking in, I think Alric could—" Merlin cut himself off and seemed to remember he was in the midst of an argument. The jesting tone faded and his blue eyes became earnest and serious. "I have to go with you. Who's going to look after you if I'm not there?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I'm misremembering the night of my wedding, but I don't remember joining a pushy black-haired idiot underneath the rowan tree." Merlin shot him an affronted glare and opened his mouth again but Arthur raised his voice. "I mean it. Don't be such a nag, Merlin."

Gwen was suddenly at his side. "Are you implying that your wife is a nag?" she asked calmly and coolly.

He startled and tried to pretend he hadn't. "Oh- er, no, of course not. My dear. Love. My love."

Sharp brown eyes studied him for a terrifyingly long moment before she subsided. Gwen turned to Merlin. "I think Arthur's right," she said. He blinked in surprise and noted Merlin did as well. Gwen's forehead creased with worry and she bit her lip. "Jacob is still missing and Clara is nearly beside herself," she added. "While you're in Flintbridge, you can ask after him. You heard her description of those men who captured him. And their methods."

She stressed the word delicately and Arthur knew she meant the sorcerous ritual Clara witnessed. He was grateful she didn't mention it in front of everyone assembled. Arthur wasn't sure how the men would have reacted. Witchfinding tended to be an uneasy subject in Camelot. Sorcery was illegal in Essetir as well, but Arthur hadn't heard of Cenred strictly enforcing the law or making an effort to investigate claims. It was nothing like Camelot, where the price of a false accusation could be one's life. Before Aredian and the debacle with Merlin and Gaius, Arthur never would have doubted the results of a witchfinder's craft. His father certainly never had.

But now… he kept hearing Merlin being accused in front of the court; kept seeing the guards drag him away in his mind's eye. Arthur thought of Jacob, his guileless smile and the light of merriment in his tawny eyes, and felt sick. Had he been executed already? Were they chasing a ghost?

No, he was being illogical. They could have killed him right there if they'd wanted. And they wouldn't cart him off to deliver to Uther after the spectacle in the center of Flintbridge. He pictured Jacob kneeling before his father's throne, hands tied behind his back. Shoving the image away, he clenched his fist. Arthur didn't want to think about the king, Camelot, or thrice-damned magic. The uncertainty and confusion was making his head pound.

He refocused and heard Gwen convincing a sullen and ornery Merlin to go along with Arthur's plan. After Merlin gave his reluctant consent, Arthur sent the men away with instructions to prepare to leave at dawn two days hence.

Distractedly trying to estimate the supplies he would need for a journey in which he didn't even know his destination, he nearly toppled Merlin over. The man had stopped in the center of the hard-packed dirt road.

"For the love of Camelot, Merlin, pay some mind to the other people around you. Some of whom would not like to fall and impale themselves on their own sword," he griped.

"Arthur, look!" Merlin's voice was pitched higher in shock and if he wasn't mistaken, delight. He followed Merlin's gaze and saw Gael. The boy was lunging and swinging his practice sword with wild abandon, apparently demonstrating his footwork for the tall, fit man at his side. The first detail Arthur noted was that the stranger carried a sword, and his casual yet graceful stance had him suspecting the man knew how to use it.

The second detail was the familiar face. He heard Gwen gasp softly next to him. Merlin hailed him exuberantly.

"Lancelot!"


	9. Chapter 9

Lancelot's natural inclination to respectfulness nearly bungled everything Merlin had worked for.

Upon hearing Merlin's cry, the man's head had jerked up. His warm brown gaze had lighted on his old friend and a delighted smile spread across his features. Lancelot approached, a petulant Gael dogging his heels and pouting at the sudden lack of attention.

"Merlin, my friend! I must say I am truly astonished to run into you at such a great distance from Camelot."

Merlin swallowed quickly, almost choking at the reminder of his previous occupation. He nearly smacked himself for his stupidity. Of course, Lancelot had no idea they were hiding here, beneath the veneer of the mundane peasantry. Merlin probably should have approached him quietly, explained their position and ensured his silence. Curse it all- now he'd spotted Arthur.

Lancelot's eyes widened and he sank onto one knee in an unthinking response to encountering the crown prince of Camelot in the middle of a dusty village of no particular import.

"Sire—" he began with honest surprise, before Merlin launched himself at the man. He heaved Lancelot hurriedly to his feet, laughing bright and falsely all the while.

"Oh, Lancelot, you haven't changed a whit," he said. "Quite the jester, isn't he, Arthur?"

He knew Lancelot could hear the brittle edge of worry in his tone by the way he stiffened underneath Merlin's hands and let himself be manhandled to Arthur's side. Fortunately, he didn't speak, simply glanced between the former prince and servant with a puzzled expression.

Arthur's forced laugh was far less convincing. Merlin very pointedly did not roll his eyes. "Er- yes, quite," the blond man stammered.

Gael's eyes darted suspiciously from adult to adult. Merlin scrambled for a distraction, a shield of words.

"You'll never let him live that down, will you?" he asked. His thoughts were whirling madly and in the chaos he latched upon a semi-plausible explanation for the curious onlookers and Gael. "I tried to tell him it wouldn't work, and I was right. The tavern girl most certainly didn't believe he was a visiting prince of Mercia."

Gwen, bless her soul, picked up the thread of the tale. She turned a mock glare on her husband. "Tavern girl, hmm? Am I going to want to hear the saga of this ill-fated escapade?"

Arthur only hesitated for a moment. A winning smile stretched his lips. "Pay no mind to these fools, my love. I have eyes only for my radiant wife."

"You're- you're married?"

Just when it'd all started to smooth out. Merlin thought a curse very strongly in Lancelot's direction.

His frustration was tempered at the slight tremor in Lancelot's question. Merlin had not considered… what must he think, upon seeing Arthur here, living out a fantasy of domesticity he was sure the would-be knight had envisioned for himself a time or two.

Gwen's smile faltered. Arthur, oblivious to the delicate tides of emotion in the air as always, clapped Lancelot cheerily on the shoulder. "Nearly a year past, since we first came to Colembria."

Lancelot swallowed and looked away. "What brought you here? To Colembria? I did not anticipate…" He seemed unsure how to broach the subject of Camelot.

Merlin met his gaze and shook his head minutely. Lancelot acknowledged with a slight nod. Arthur jumped in. "It's a long, dreary tale. Best told over some stew and ale. You'll dine with us tonight, Lancelot?"

"Of course, my—my friend," the banished knight replied. At his elbow, Gael had enough of being ignored.

"He's coming to Auntie's house first," the boy insisted. "He promised that we'd have a training session."

Arthur eyed the pair. Now that Merlin was looking at them side-by-side, he noted a similarity in the shape of their mouth, the slope of their nose. He and Gael had to be related in some fashion.

"You're the mysterious benefactor," Arthur said suddenly. Merlin quirked a brow at him. "I noticed when we were sparring in the town square. The lad's training sword is of uncommonly fine workmanship. I wondered where he'd acquired it."

Lancelot glanced down. "You sparred with Arthur in the town square?" His question held a hint of disapproval.

Gael nodded without a trace of shame. "Yup. I challenged him to a bout."

"And who won?" Lancelot asked with a patient smile.

"Well… I nearly had him."

Lancelot laughed aloud at that. "I'm surprised you've still got both hands attached."

Gael's youthful bravado melted away in his exuberance. "He's the best swordsman I've ever seen!"

Gael's starry-eyed gaze at Arthur had all three of them laughing. The blond man shifted on his feet. "Lancelot is more than a match for me," he deflected. "A most worthy opponent."

Arthur always was more willing to accept the adoration of the masses than admiration from a personal acquaintance. A quirk Merlin had observed more than once and often puzzled over.

"Lance, you should spar with him. I want to watch! You know. For, um, training purposes," Gael added.

"Perhaps I will. Later," Lancelot said. He turned to Arthur. The coiled tension in his lean frame had eased a little. "I did give him the sword. I commissioned it for his last nameday in Mercia." The knight ruffled Gael's dark hair, leaving it in greater disarray than before, if that were possible. "Gael is the child of my cousin Olwyn. His aunt takes care of him now, but I try to visit whenever my travels bring me near the Dragon's Tail."

Merlin and Gwen stood aside and watched as Lancelot and Gael convinced Arthur to accompany them for dinner and eventually roped him into a training session. He'd made a show of protesting, but caved entirely too quickly to be believed.

Squeezing Gwen's fingers, Merlin whispered, "As if he'd turn down the chance to spar with a real knight. Gael's been his only competition and the lad's barely as tall as Arthur's sword."

She spared him an amused glance. "Let's leave the little boys to their fun." Gwen tugged him along. They finished up the remaining work in the forge in companionable silence for the rest of the afternoon. The familiarity of working with Gwen soothed Merlin, and he was able to calm his thoughts instead of relentlessly circling around the litany of his worries.

Arthur and Lancelot ducked over the threshold of the cottage as dusk settled, red-cheeked and panting with exertion. The blond prince was glowing brightly, a lightness to his movements that Merlin had rarely seen in Camelot outside of hunts and friendly spars.

The chat turned to their flight from Camelot over steaming bowls of stew. "We had to leave," Arthur revealed solemnly. "For Guinevere's sake. My father had discovered our… feelings for each other and sentenced her to death."

"Death?" Lancelot echoed in shock.

"He thought Gwen had cast a love charm upon Arthur," Merlin explained. He felt the sardonic twist to his mouth. "Because of course that's the only explanation for loving a servant."

Arthur's lips tightened but he didn't respond. Gwen's brown eyes had a sheen to them as she trained her gaze on the table. "I didn't want to leave Camelot. To make Arthur leave. But…"

Her husband gripped her hands tightly in his. "You didn't make me do anything, Guinevere. I chose of my own free will. I chose you." The passion and devotion in his voice warmed Merlin's heart. Where once the prince would have hidden his feelings behind a mask of stoicism or arrogance, now he allowed Merlin and Lancelot to hear. His cheeks still flamed red, and he glanced awkwardly and belligerently at the two as if daring them to say a word, but Merlin figured it was progress.

Merlin took pity on him. "It was too dangerous to remain in the city." Gwen pulled her gaze from Arthur to shoot him a look laden with meaning. He knew she was thinking of Morgana. They hadn't told Arthur of their suspicions, though Merlin had a feeling the dreaded conversation was going to happen sooner rather than later.

"We fled, but Gwen was injured by the guards as we escaped. I was able to patch her up, but we needed help. So… we took shelter with the Druids." Now it was Lancelot's turn to give him a loaded look with an altogether different hidden meaning. If he wasn't careful, he'd forget which secrets he had with whom.

"I know what you're thinking, Lancelot, but the Druids actually helped us. They healed Guinevere," Arthur said hastily. Merlin blinked. He still wasn't used to hearing Arthur defend magic users.

The first few days spent among the Druids had been an awful, tense, drawn-out misery with Merlin just waiting for a disaster. For his magic to be revealed, for someone to slip and call him Emrys, for Arthur to snap and run a sorcerer through with his sword. He'd teetered on a knife's edge of worry and desperate fear until Arthur finally relaxed. Marginally. Once Gwen made a demonstrable improvement under the withered healer's care, Arthur had at least stopped muttering under his breath and sleeping with his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. And ever so cautiously, Merlin had begun to hope.

He still tensed when the subject of magic was raised, but Merlin thought his reaction was borne of wariness rather than hatred and rage.

Lancelot stared at Arthur, both eyebrows raised, until the prince began to flush an angry red again. Merlin nudged the knight under the table and Lancelot recovered himself. "Then I am truly grateful to them," he said. Arthur subsided, satisfied with the response.

After he'd helped tidy up, Merlin suggested he and Lancelot sleep in the forge that night. His friend had needed barely any prodding, glancing at the bed Arthur and Gwen would share and quickly away again. The pair bid them goodnight and hoisted bedrolls on their shoulders.

The sturdy walls and low roof of the forge kept in the heat of the fire. The air was warm and close on his skin. He waited until Lancelot had arranged his bedroll off to one side of the bellows before speaking.

"It is good to see you. It's been too long."

Lancelot favored him with an honest smile. "Much too long. I wanted to come back to Camelot many times…"

He trailed off and Merlin caught the disappointment. If he had returned, mayhap Gwen's courtship with Arthur would never have bloomed. Merlin didn't know, and couldn't predict the twists of fate. He sympathized with his friend, but thought of how Arthur and Gwen gazed at each other and found it difficult to see a future where they weren't together.

"Well, now you're not the only exile," Merlin joked in a weak attempt to lighten the mood.

Lancelot sent him an unreadable look that had Merlin fidgeting. "Yes, I've heard," he said evenly.

"Oh, I suppose you must have," he replied uncertainly.

"Merlin," Lancelot's brow wrinkled slightly. "Have you any idea what sort of commotion Arthur's departure caused in Camelot and among the five kingdoms?"

"Er- Uther's had an apoplectic fit?"

He shook his head with an exasperated fondness that Merlin was intimately familiar with; only it usually came from his mother and Gaius. "The strongest kingdom in the region is suddenly without an heir," Lancelot pointed out. "Even when Arthur was there, rumors of Uther's instability spread. No one likes the idea of a king with Camelot's wealth and influence and army becoming untethered to reality."

Merlin swallowed nervously. His old friend's warm brown eyes were sympathetic but serious. "People are scared, Merlin. There's been whispering about a new Purge."

"Wh-What?" he sputtered. "A new Purge? Doesn't that seem- rather dire?"

"Uther massacred sorcerers when he lost his wife. And now he's lost his son to the influence of magic."

Merlin slumped back against the forge's wall. Uther hadn't really lost Arthur to magic; the love charm wasn't even real. But the king didn't make those distinctions. Magic was involved, and that was enough to condemn hundreds to death. His nails dug into his palms as he clenched his fists.

"Do you… do you really think that will happen?" he whispered.

Lancelot stretched out on his pallet. He crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the smoke-hole in the roof. "I hope not. I haven't been to Camelot since I was banished, though. I'm not sure of the temperament of the town or citadel."

Merlin went cold at the mention of the castle. His expression must have changed drastically. Lancelot's eyes had flicked over and away again before quickly coming back. He levered himself up abruptly. "What is it?"

"It's just- Morgana," he finally admitted, sighing. "I know she's taking advantage of Arthur's absence and stirring up fear and hatred."

"The _Lady_ Morgana?" His tone was incredulous and Merlin was sick to death of people falling for the façade of the fragile noblewoman.

His voice had a bitter edge when he responded. "The Lady Morgana is a traitor to Camelot. She helped Morgause plan the attack."

Lancelot's mouth hung open as he stared at Merlin. "She… _why_? By all the spirits, why would she do that to the family who took her in as their ward?"

This unhappy tale Merlin knew only too well. "She has magic, Lancelot. Like me." His thoughts snarled together in his head, caught up in the myriad threads of what might have been. Without the secrets he kept, without the boundaries of status. Without the death of a young queen and the river of blood unleashed in her wake.

What could Morgana have been without the shackles of the present?

He tried to push the fantasies away. There was only this world and Morgana had made her choices. She'd made it clear whose side she was on. And as much as he hated it, the line was drawn with himself and Arthur on one side and Morgana and Morgause on the other. The people of Camelot, peasants and sorcerers and nobles and druids and everyone included, were stranded somewhere in the ghastly abyss between them. There was no convenient, stark line to be drawn among them. If Morgana had her uprising, the usurpation that he had no doubt was the goal of her machinations, the country would be torn asunder.

Lancelot's face was creased with worry. "What are you going to do, Merlin?"

Doubt crept into the crevices of his mind. A tangible, living parasite. "I don't know," he replied. "I really don't know."


	10. Chapter 10

Gaius braced himself as the door to Merlin's room banged open. "It's a glorious night, Gaius!" came an enthusiastic shout. "The stars are out, the ale is flowing, and the tavern is open!"

"I thought you were banned from the Rising Sun, Gwaine," the physician replied. "Something about inciting a riot over the price of ale."

Gwaine waved him off cheerfully. "A misunderstanding."

The young rogue had shown up on Gaius's doorstep two days before, vibrating with excitement and asking after Merlin. Gaius had promptly smacked him upside the head and demanded to know why he had dared return to Camelot after being banished and informed he was not to return on pain of death. Gwaine had simply blinked at him and gestured at his newly shorn hair and long cloak.

"I'm in disguise," he'd told Gaius blithely. The knight had even shaved his beard. The changes in appearance were quite effective, as much as Gaius loathed admitting it, but he'd still recognized the young man and knew that others could possibly as well. "It's been months!" Gwaine had argued. "Besides, I heard a rumor about Arthur being banished from Camelot and I had to come and check on Merlin."

Gaius had sighed and beckoned him inside. "Merlin's gone with Arthur." Gaius explained the circumstances to Gwaine as well as he could. Gwaine had been dismayed at Merlin's absence and Gaius' lack of concrete information on his location. He'd looked so dejected that the physician had told Gwaine he could stay the night against his better judgment. It wouldn't be the first outlaw that had stayed in the spare bedroom, though no one but he knew about Merlin.

And now Gwaine simply wouldn't leave, hanging around like a bad smell. Before Gaius could admonish him or berate him, Gwaine darted around the table and out into the corridor, whistling as he went.

A servant summoning him to Uther's bedchambers interrupted the physician's well-justified grumbling. The king required a tonic for his shoulder; the old wound was bothering him again. Gaius dutifully packed up his bag and shuffled off to the royal apartments.

When he arrived, Uther was seated at the desk. He did not have a quill or paper in hand, instead simply staring at the wood grain of the varnished surface. Gaius announced his presence with a knock and a soft "my lord."

The king acknowledged him with a distracted grunt and took the tonic from Gaius without a word. The physician lingered uncertainly. Uther had been worryingly withdrawn of late.

"What is it, my lord? If I may, you seem preoccupied," Gaius asked gently.

Uther stood abruptly from his chair and approached the open window overlooking the courtyard below. He stared, eyes blank and unseeing, at the cobblestones as he spoke.

"I thought Arthur would return."

Gaius's heart sank. He did not have much in the way of reassurance for Uther on this particular subject. It was too easy to sympathize with Arthur.

"I thought, perhaps given a few weeks to realize the error of his ways, Arthur would return seeking my forgiveness. And I would extend it gratefully, despite his willfulness." Uther twisted his hands together, an anxious gesture Gaius rarely saw from the staunch and stubborn sovereign. He looked up and met Gaius's gaze.

"Gaius, I fear Arthur will never return." The admission was quick and painful in its honesty.

"Sire…" Gaius shifted uncomfortably. "Sire, you must not give up hope. Arthur loves Camelot. And he loves his father. I have faith he will return one day."

Uther stormed away from the window, throwing his hands up. "But what if he does not? Magic has its claws deep into him, Gaius. He has been ensnared by that peasant girl and enabled by that manservant. I fear that Arthur, my Arthur, will not return, even if his body does."

A chill of fear had Gaius's hands trembling. Uther could not truly believe that Arthur was so deeply warped by magic. When his son returned, Uther _had_ to accept him back. A sudden vision of Arthur, Gwen, and Merlin all tied to separate stakes in the courtyard spurred Gaius into speaking.

"I do not believe the situation is so dire, my lord. I cannot. Arthur is a strong young man." He couldn't help but add, "And we have no definite evidence that Guinevere cast a love spell upon him. Only a poultice, which could have been placed there by any hopeful girl to turn his head."

Uther's expression darkened. The fire of conviction in his eyes was eerily reminiscent of the dark, miserable days of the Purge. "The girl's guilt is not in doubt, Gaius. If she dares enter Camelot again, I will have her executed like I promised. My concern is how deep the enchantment goes. If Arthur cannot be cured by the girl's death…"

He forced his disposition to remain calm. "If I may, my lord, why do you fear so greatly for Arthur?"

The king glanced away. "The subject has plagued my mind since Arthur's departure."

"But you seemed convinced Guinevere's execution would be sufficient before," Gaius insisted.

"Concerns have been brought to my attention," Uther said stiffly. "Several council members have questioned Arthur's continued status as my heir despite his corruption by magic. Morgana has confided her doubts to me as well."

His jaw clenched. Morgana had not ceased whispering in Uther's ear, and Gaius could do nothing to convince the king to disregard his beloved ward. His beloved daughter.

"Mayhaps Morgana is simply too upset by Arthur's departure," Gaius suggested carefully.

"She has been quite upset, but she is handling it well." A small, fond smile curved Uther's lips. "Morgana has been my constant light and joy amidst this foul business."

The king's hazel eyes were warm and Gaius felt nauseous. There was nothing to disprove. Morgana hadn't committed any acts of treason that he could catch her in. He could not fight manipulative words or battle with emotions. The helplessness gnawed at him. How could he serve and defend his king when the enemy had an unyielding grasp on his heart? When she kissed his cheek and pretended to soothe the worst of his fears?

He could do nothing but nod. "Yes, my lord."

Uther's brow furrowed. An odd look came over his features. "She is my daughter."

Gaius nodded again, uncertain where the conversation was headed. "She is my daughter by blood if not title," Uther continued. "Perhaps…"

Panic fluttered in Gaius's chest. The king could not be seriously considering naming Morgana heir in Arthur's stead. She would tear the kingdom apart, drive Camelot into a bloody civil war by forcing the legalization of magic, or at the very least, a war of succession when Arthur returned. Morgana would not relinquish the throne to her half-brother.

Uther did not finish his sentence and Gaius didn't dare press him to put his thoughts into words lest he cement Uther's resolve. The king dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Gaius left his chambers as Uther gazed out the window again with a pensive aspect.

His mood was gloomy and solemn as he plodded back to his chambers. Gwaine was not there when he returned and Gaius was glad for the reprieve, to be alone with his doubts and worries. Sleep was an elusive aspiration that night.

As Gaius woke with the dawn, the well of calmness he often relied upon was somewhat restored. Uther had listened to Gaius's advice for decades, and had no reason to stop now. He would work at it, consistently and firmly, until Merlin and Arthur returned. He could convince Uther that his faith in Arthur was not misplaced.

"Morning, Gaius," came Gwaine's bleary voice as he stumbled from Merlin's room. "Don't suppose you've—"

Wordlessly, Gaius held out a headache tonic. Gwaine's answering grin was blinding. "You're a gem among men, Gaius."

The physician snorted. He began gathering his supply of tonics for the rounds he was to make of the castle that morning. Gwaine chattered about his night at the tavern and his woe that Merlin wasn't there to have met the barmaid's younger sister "who would've just eaten Merlin up, Gaius, really, with those funny ears and big blue eyes and the whole pure, guileless baby-doe thing he's got going— you know exactly what I'm talking about Gaius, come on—"

And a notion struck him. There was something else he could do.

He glanced speculatively at Gwaine. The young man was sprawled on the bench, elbows resting back on the table and feet propped up on a stack of Gaius's most rare historical volumes, snacking on an apple.

He abruptly interrupted Gwaine. "Perhaps you should try to go and visit Merlin."

The young man raised his thick, dark eyebrows. "I thought you said you didn't know where he and Arthur were."

"I don't know. But I have a suspicion." Gaius wondered how to convince him to go haring off after Merlin without even a shred of proof of his whereabouts. But Gwaine surprised him.

"Well, sure. Camelot was getting dull anyway."

Gaius blinked but nodded. "He mentioned going to Essetir. His mother lives there, but he wouldn't have gone back to Ealdor, not with Arthur. I told him the location of a rumored Druid encampment in the Forest of Balor, near the southwest border of Cenred's land. I suspect he would have taken Arthur and Gwen there first."

Gwaine frowned at him. "No offense, but has Merlin lost his wits? Why would he take Arthur near any Druids?"

He sighed. "Gwen was injured. I couldn't care for her here. I told Merlin the nearest place she could be cared for, with a healer I knew was experienced." Yaissa had come to Camelot many years ago, before the Purge, even before Uther's marriage to Ygraine. She had been mature, with a hint of grey at her temples but a youthful smile and thirst for knowledge that endeared her effortlessly to Gaius.

Gwaine hopped up from the bench. "I won't waste a minute of the day, then. Look at that sunrise! The weather's shaping up to be beautiful. I'll pack my things straightaway!"

The new purpose apparently rejuvenated him, the hangover forgotten. Gaius couldn't let him leave without giving him a warning to pass on to Merlin regarding Morgana's manipulations. But he couldn't simply tell Gwaine that. Could he? He didn't necessarily trust Gwaine to remember the particulars of a coded message or to accurately convey implications that Merlin would grasp. Perhaps it was best to be direct.

With a sigh, Gaius resigned himself to the idea. He had to speak his suspicions to someone. If Morgana realized how much Gaius knew, he would be a threat that she would happily dispose of. She had never forgiven him for lying to her about her nightmares, or the endless stream of useless sleeping draughts he'd fed her.

At least word of Morgana's plot would reach Arthur and Merlin if he told Gwaine. He had no doubt the young man would seek them out determinedly to warn them. If Gaius told him of the threat she posed, there was less chance of Gwaine getting distracted during his search. For all he pretended he was a careless rogue, Gwaine was loyal and trustworthy, even if not honorable in the strictest sense of the word.

Gwaine had noticed his staring. "Something you want to say?" He grinned cheekily, tossing the apple up in the air and catching it nimbly. "Spit it out, already!"

Gaius frowned disapprovingly and raised an eyebrow. The young man gulped and set the apple back on the table.

"I mean, is there something else I can help you with, Gaius?"

Much better. He'd perfected that look on his impish nephew. Gaius nodded graciously and settled himself on the opposite bench.

"There is another reason you should seek out Merlin," he said slowly. "You must warn him."

Gwaine frowned and lowered himself back to the bench. "What do you mean? Warn him about what?"

He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "I believe Uther plans to name Morgana his heir in lieu of Arthur. This must not happen."

Gwaine gaped at him. "What? Why? I thought you said—"

"Morgana has convinced Uther that Arthur has been tainted with magic," Gaius explained quickly. "She is turning Uther against him to take the throne for herself. You must warn Merlin."

A riot of expressions fought for dominance over Gwaine's handsome features. "Okay. Okay. You know Uther and Morgana better than I ever could. I believe you," he finally said. Gaius felt a weight he didn't know he'd been holding crumble at Gwaine's declaration of trust.

"Why should I tell Merlin, though? Why not Arthur?"

"Arthur does not know Morgana has been plotting against his father and his throne. Merlin does. He can decide how to explain it to Arthur." Even as he formed the words, Gaius wasn't sure that Merlin would tell Arthur anything about Morgana's history of treason. He knew Merlin, he knew how he kept his suspicions and his secrets close to his chest. If he told Gwaine of Morgana's magic, perhaps it would force Merlin's hand, force him to reveal the extent of her betrayal.

He had been the one to counsel Merlin against telling Arthur of Morgana's treachery. The lad had no proof, after all, and Gaius hadn't wanted an accusation of that magnitude to come between the two, or to endanger Merlin any further with the reprisal. But now, given the precariousness of Arthur's position…

Gaius wavered with indecision. Once Morgana's magic was revealed to Gwaine and thus to Arthur, he could not take the words back. Their relationship would be irrevocably changed. Had he the right, to destroy the bond between blood-siblings in such an underhanded manner? Though Morgana had laid the foundations of such ruin with her bitter schemes, Gaius still hesitated, arrested by the memories of two young children at play in his chambers.

But Uther was vulnerable. Arthur was sorely needed in Camelot. The king's frailty was whispered about among the court, and Morgana maneuvered her way ever closer to the throne with each deft word and smooth suggestion. After Uther's persecution of Guinevere, it would take much to draw Arthur back to his father's side, but the revelation of his half-sister's magic and menace would certainly suffice.

Merlin would not be best pleased, Gaius was sure. His nephew would be treading perilous ground. If Morgana, the king's ward and beloved foster sister, could possess magic, then anyone could, including Arthur's supposedly witless manservant.

Merlin might feel indignant on Morgana's behalf as well. The lad had once begged to confide in the lady, to entrust his deadliest secret to her whims. Gaius had forbidden it, of course. Merlin had not been alive during the Purge. He did not know the damage that could be done by an allegation such as that coming from a ward of the royal family. Aredian had been enough of a trial. If Morgana accused Merlin, Gaius would have no recourse to claim the punishment in his stead. Somehow, his stubborn nephew couldn't see the threat past his overwhelming compassion. The concern and care he'd held for the king's ward unsettled Gaius now, given what she had become. Was the regard still there, hidden under the scars of anger and hurt and betrayal? Could Merlin strike against her when she attempted to usurp the throne by force or guile? The uncertainty ate at Gaius, dark and insidious. Merlin's heart was both his most endearing quality and his greatest liability.

Telling Gwaine would equate to telling Arthur, Gaius was sure. And that would guarantee Merlin could not be swayed with past sympathy or affection for Morgana into inaction or indecision.

Gaius did not take his duties as a healer lightly. He was an advocate, a confidant; he was sworn to the wellbeing of his patients. For all her faults, Morgana had been his patient. But he was also sworn to the king. The physician often stepped lightly around the bonds of service and fealty, defying and obeying the king in turns. His loyalty to Uther had conditions. But his loyalty to Camelot and her people did not. And Arthur was the Once and Future King. Morgana's reign would bring naught but calamity.

He put Merlin's earnest, passionate blue eyes out of his mind. Morgana had to be dealt with, to ensure the future of Camelot and Merlin and Arthur's destinies.

"Gwaine," he said heavily. "Morgana is a sorceress." He let the pronouncement lie for a moment, stifling and thick in the air. Gwaine didn't speak, only stared at him. "She will topple Uther, and in her vengefulness, destroy Camelot. It is imperative you reach Merlin and warn Arthur."

The young man's silence was distressing. His stare was distant and imprecise. "Gwaine?" the physician asked urgently. "Do you understand?"

A sharp, dark gaze turned to him. When Gwaine spoke, his voice echoed with resolution. "Yes. I'll find them, Gaius. I swear it."


End file.
